Geometry of Chance
by N.L. Rummi
Summary: After escaping from the Initiative, Ethan Rayne goes to the Cleveland Hellmouth for a new start and a chance at real power. What he finds is a lot more than he bargained for. - COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Summary:** After escaping from the Initiative, Ethan Rayne goes to the Cleveland Hellmouth for a new start and a chance at real power. What he finds is a lot more than he bargained for.

**Warnings:** Violent content (some involving children), though not in this chapter.

**Author's Notes:** Set a few weeks after the BtVS series finale, _Chosen._ Not related to the comic universe.

Written in response to a piece of fanart created by Wickedfox on LJ, which can be seen at sharelle**dot**livejournal**dot**com / 447799**dot**html. (Delete spaces and change the words "dot" to actual dots!)

Thank you, Sandy_S, for the original beta!

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_**Geometry of Chance  
**__A BtVS Fanfiction_

_by Rummi_

* * *

**I.**

There was a quick spark, and the lock sizzled. The door swung open and his hand reached quickly inside, coming out with a few wrapped stacks of bills. Not too much, mind - not so much that anyone would miss it right away. It was important to do things in moderation, especially if he wanted to stay under the radar. A couple hundred here and there would be more or less discreet, and still enable him to keep himself funded. Oh, sure, he had grander plans than this. But just because he was a genius didn't mean he was above petty theft.

Petty theft paid the bills. Opened doors to bigger things. That, he was counting on.

The few hundred he'd been able to grab should be enough for now. He only had a few seconds to finish up anyway, before the Rwasundi charm he'd acquired lost potency. Rather handy little objects, those. Very rare. Not as effective as the presence of an actual Rwasundi demon, but the small talisman caused enough localized temporal disturbance to suit his needs. No one in the bank would ever know he'd been here.

It would only take a few more moments to finish up. He'd gotten very good at working quickly – after a number of hard-learned lessons. No more "stay and gloat" for him. "In, out, and on with it" was his new motto. It had served him well in recent times.

He eased the door shut on the small cash vault and dusted away some of the sediment that had settled around the lock. Just a simple disengaging spell, nothing fancy. To a casual observer it would seem as though the vault had merely been left unlocked – a minor oversight on the part of a distracted teller. By the time anyone noticed the missing cash, he would be long gone – barely a blip on the radar of those in the bank around him since, thanks to the Rwasundi charm, no one would ever recall seeing him here. They'd suffer a few minor hallucinations, sort of like déjà vu, where they would relive the same five minutes a few times – most likely in an unsystematic order of events – all while he walked right through their midst, completely unaffected.

As long as he hung on to that charm.

He stood up. Perfect timing; nothing less than another brilliant execution. He slid the thin stack of bills into a money pouch he had hidden beneath his jacket. Very soon he'd have enough acquired to put his full plan into effect. Until then, however, it was a low profile for him.

He made his way quickly to the door, his shoes clicking rhythmically upon the green marble floor of the bank. The people around him seemed as still as statues, but that was only from his perspective, because he wasn't caught in the same displacement that they were experiencing. In a few short seconds, the natural flow of time would return, leaving behind nothing but a roomful of disoriented individuals who could not even attest to him being there.

They'd make up some feeble excuse to explain the whole thing – gas leak or something just as droll. People here were used to explaining things away. After all, it was a Hellmouth.

Ethan Rayne placed his sunglasses on and slipped the Rwasundi talisman safely alongside the cash in his money pouch, breaking the spell as he did so. Then, he turned and left the bank, walking out into the bright Cleveland sun.

* * *

In the hazy stillness of the abandoned second-floor apartment, a small form shivered. It wasn't a cold day. In fact, since it was June, the Cleveland weather was relatively mild. But the cool, damp air wafting into the uncovered, paneless window from Lake Erie seemed to coat the abandoned apartment. It settled over everything like a layer of dew, peeling away at the old, cracked wallpaper and draping a bone-chilling veil on an otherwise pleasant morning.

With nothing to use as a blanket, except the clothes she had with her and a few discarded pieces of damp newspaper, the young girl curled in upon her own body. She tucked her knees tightly in and pressed her back against the wall, shifting on the small twin bed and feeling the springs squeak and press against her. As she moved, the large piece of cardboard she'd placed on top of the springs to serve as her mattress slid partially out from beneath her. She raised her head and glared at it balefully, then cast her eyes toward the open window.

Squinting into the sunlight that reflected off the building next door, she rolled heavily off the bed. She straightened to a standing position and rubbed fiercely at her arms to chase the damp chill out of her bare limbs. Glancing around for a moment, she spotted her oversized knit sweater near the door, where she must have dropped it when she'd stumbled in through the dark last night. She probably should have left it on, but it had been so warm and stuffy in here then – a definite contrast from the cool air that had crept in and settled overnight.

She stepped toward the sweater, maneuvering around the random clutter that littered the floor. Her steps were awkward; her coltish legs seemed a bit too long and ungainly for her small frame. She picked up the sweater. The fabric, like everything else in the room that was exposed to the open air, had a cold mustiness about it. She rolled it into a ball and rubbed it aggressively against itself to warm it up a bit before putting it on.

The girl glanced out the window, her eyes still lidded with sleep. She could see the lake out in the distance, as well as Edgewater Park. The sun glittered off the water and stung her bleary eyes, forcing her to turn them back upon the dim confines of the dirty apartment.

Her hand pressed against her stomach, where she felt a squeezing grumble grow more and more insistent. She hadn't eaten much to speak of since yesterday morning and she felt almost nauseous at the twisting in her empty belly. She should go out and find something to eat. Perhaps she'd have better luck than she did yesterday.

Slipping her arms through the over-stretched sleeves of the sweater, she glanced around the apartment one more time and headed back toward the bed. There, near the iron headboard, was an old lamp – no bulb, frayed wiring, but the girl didn't use it for light. The building had no electricity anyway. It was only a condemned four-story apartment, a remnant of the old dingy steel town that Cleveland had been, located in a neighborhood that had missed out on the recent facelift the rest of the city had undergone. The lamp actually served as a makeshift nightstand, where the girl kept the one belonging she had left. The only thing that was actually _hers_ besides the clothes on her back. And even those had been donated by the shelter, before she left.

Strung over the spot where the bulb would go was a black length of ribbon – a choker. And dangling from it was a small metallic cross. It wasn't even real silver, just a cheap silvery metal. She kept it because it had been her mother's. For luck, she had said, though lately it hadn't really been holding up its end of the bargain.

She lifted the choker from its improvised stand and fastened it around her neck. Her eyes did another sweep of the room, though there wasn't really any need; nothing else here belonged to her. She ran her fingers swiftly through her hair. She may be currently without a home, but that didn't mean she didn't have to conspicuously look the part. Especially when she was heading downtown. If she didn't look presentable enough to mingle with the crowds, then she'd hardly be able to get close enough to anyone to relieve them of some breakfast cash.

She squinted at her distorted reflection, which peered back at her from within the cracked base of the lamp as though from a funhouse mirror. When she was moderately satisfied, she left through the apartment door.

* * *

Ethan walked along Prospect Avenue beneath the shadow of the Terminal Tower. Something about a nice easy heist always made a stroll more enjoyable. He was at least a few hundred closer to his goal, and no one around him was the wiser. He caught sight of a beat cop across the street who passed by without even looking. The thought of being completely ignored by the local authorities sent a shiver of excitement through him.

Okay, so he wasn't completely above the "stay and gloat." But he'd earned his right to do so, as far as he was concerned. After he'd been escorted out of Sunnydale about three years ago by those Initiative chaps, he'd spent a few months in a detention facility in the Nevada desert. Funny how those military types always say things like "prisoner detained pending determination of his status," but when it comes down to having a real sorcerer in custody, those claims seem to fly right out the window. But they aren't secret government facilities for nothing. The outside world was meant to forget about Ethan Rayne. Lucky for him he had other plans, and his detention period didn't last very long.

It was the talisman that had done it. The military had gotten its hands on the Rwasundi charm during some kind of dimensional experiment. They'd been testing it on different control groups, noting the longevity of its effects on various demonic and supernatural life forms. Ethan had to admit, it would have made one hell of a weapon if the army had ever used it against foreign aggressors. When some of those science blokes attempted to use Ethan as a test subject, he'd managed to convince them that, in the hands of a genuine sorcerer, the effects of the talisman would be multiplied, leaving them with an even more powerful weapon at an even greater range. They'd agreed to let Ethan try, in a controlled environment, of course.

Bloody imbeciles. Though he had to admit, it had been rather brilliant on his part.

Once he'd gotten the talisman in his hands, controlled circumstances or not, it was a small matter to walk right out of the facility. He left the Initiative behind in a wave of temporary temporal disturbance.

Getting out of the bleeding desert, however, had been another matter entirely.

After all that had happened, Ethan didn't dare go back to Sunnydale. Not so soon, anyway. Ripper might play the pacifistic good guy when it suited him, but he'd been a changed man the last time they had seen each other. Quite literally – and all Ethan's doing, of course. There was no doubt in Ethan's mind that if he showed up on his old friend's doorstep too soon, Giles wouldn't hesitate to finish what he started. The innate rage of the Fyarl demon he had temporarily become wasn't the only thing fueling Giles' desire to kill him. No, going back west was not an option right now.

Instead, Ethan had found himself drawn here. Yet another Hellmouth, gathering power to itself like a magical black hole. He seemed to fit in here. This doorway to Hell didn't seem quite as potent as the one in Sunnydale, but it was powerful enough. And for the last two years Ethan had reveled in the fact that, with enough power, he could possibly have run of the place – especially without Rupert's shiny-girl Slayer breathing down his neck.

Yes, Cleveland was perfect.

Of course, it meant starting out small in the beginning. Ethan didn't want to draw the kind of attention that he had in California. Not right away, at least. Not until he was fully ready to go through with his plan – a plan that would be a first step toward the power he was looking for. A lucrative cash flow was only the beginning. Ethan was nearly ready to put the other pieces into place.

He picked up his pace a bit, walking briskly through the crowd of people who flowed along Prospect Avenue. A few more blocks and he would be able to deposit his most recent earnings with the rest he had accumulated at his flat. Occasionally, the crowd would jostle against him, and his hand would go reflexively to his suit jacket. The lump of the pouch pressed reassuringly against his palm from the inside pocket. Ethan patted it once and smiled.

A moment later, the crowd made a quick shift, and he felt himself lose his balance. Ethan shot his hand out to steady himself as one or two members of the oncoming mass of people bumped against him from the front.

He heard a disjointed voice mutter a half-hearted "sorry," but Ethan was already rolling his eyes at the apparent ignorance and utter impatience of people when herded into large groups like this. They swam upstream against each other like salmon, always in a hurry to get where they were going as fast as bloody possible. Always thinking their own schedule superceded anyone else's.

_Wherever you're headed, people_, he thought, _it's not going anywhere. What's another ten bloody minutes?_

Ethan Rayne had discovered a bit about patience in the last few years. And he'd have to say it was a lesson well learned. After all, that patience was about to pay off very soon. His hand again patted at the breast of his suit.

Ethan's eyes went impossibly wide. He halted mid-step and his fingers unconsciously groped against the jacket from the outside. His mind was already sounding the alarm, waiting for the rest of his body to catch up to what it already knew.

It was gone - the pouch, the money, all of it. Gone.

Ethan whipped around and stood stock still, scanning the heads of the crowd around him, but seeing only a sea of people, tossing him in the storminess of their midst. As he stood there, he could feel body after body bump against his motionless form. He was vaguely aware of the irritated voices that filtered into his brain as they grumbled about his obstruction of the sidewalk. He had blocked them all out because there was only room in his head for one thought.

"By Janus," he breathed.

The Rwasundi talisman. That was gone, too.

* * *

She ducked swiftly into the mouth of an alley and didn't stop running until she was away from the main street. After that, she continued at a fast-paced walk for a few more seconds for good measure, casting looks behind her as she went. When she was sure she hadn't been followed, the girl hustled over to the nearest corner, where a building met a chain link fence and a large green dumpster hid her from view. She hunkered down to inspect the contents of whatever she had managed to grab.

It was black and bulgy, a kind of rough canvas pouch. If she folded it in half, it might be about the size of a typical wallet. One end of it had an especially prominent lump in it. For no other reason than bizarre curiosity, the girl sniffed it first. Whatever bumpy thing was in there, it certainly didn't smell like food. Though the thought made her stomach growl again. Without any further ceremony, she peeled open the thin strip of Velcro that held the pouch closed and peeked inside.

She couldn't be sure of how long she sat there with her jaw hanging open, but when she finally regained the ability to move she reached deftly inside the pouch. From its confines, she removed a stack of bills - what looked like several twenties wrapped inside a self-adhesive currency band. As she stared at it, she had to remind herself to blink.

Inside the pouch, she saw two more small stacks of bills.

_God! There had to be at least a few hundred dollars here!_

The girl began to giggle. She couldn't believe her luck. She placed the bills back into the pouch and grinned madly at the walls of the alley. Unconsciously, she brought her hand up to the metal cross on the choker around her neck and gave it a little rub between her index finger and her thumb. Looked like her luck was changing, after all. She giggled again and clutched the small pouch to her chest with a gleeful bounce.

As she squeezed it, she again noticed the oddly-shaped bulge at one end. Opening the pouch a second time, she looked past the money and spotted a small brown object, about the length of her finger. She removed it from the pouch and held it up, narrowing her eyes at it.

The thing looked vaguely Blair Witch. Brown tufts of what felt like thick, coarse straw were tightly bound at one end, feathering out into what appeared to be a crude fan on the other. The bristles were stiff and scratchy and the whole thing was wound together with fraying gray thread. The only remotely interesting thing about it was in the center, where the thick handle of the thing began bristling out into the wider shape. There was a somewhat shiny stone there, held tightly in place by solid layers upon layers of the wound thread. It was ugly and mud-brown, but it was the only thing that kept the whole object from looking entirely like a miniature broom.

The girl wondered why someone who had all this money would also be carrying around such a dumb looking thing. Sentimental value, maybe, but if that was the case he was just going to learn to get along without it. After all, it wasn't like she was going to waste her time searching for the guy whose wallet she lifted just to find out if he wanted his ugly lint brush back. Apparently he was rich; he'd deal. She had learned to live without a lot of things. Thankfully, however, food was not one of them today.

_Maybe, if Moneybags was really lucky, he'd manage to track it down._ She decided to leave it here for him. She wrinkled her nose at the thing, and then tossed it onto the alley floor.

* * *

Ethan burst through the door to his flat at a run.

_Bloody pedestrians_, he thought with a growl. _Absolutely no bloody consideration. Did it ever occur to them that a bloke's schedule might be just a little more bloody important than their own?_

He headed immediately for the back room. Throwing aside the curtain, Ethan hurried inside and fell to his knees. All around him, the room was dimly lit and musty with the smell of heat and incense. There were many candles, a number of statues and several reliquaries – things he had needed to reacquire following his escape from the Initiative's detention facility. Some of it he had bought with the money he managed to confiscate in bank jobs like today. Some of it he had come by through less honest means. It was a far cry from the power he had once wielded, but it was a start. And his strength was growing.

Ethan grabbed a candle from the nearest shelf and a handful of powder to form a circle around him. All he needed was a simple locator spell, but he had to work fast. Whomever had taken his pouch wouldn't waste time before opening it. He was certain of that. When they did, it would expose the talisman to the open air, causing it to activate. If he wanted to get a solid bead on its location, that would be the best time to do it.

Ethan gathered what he needed quickly, then closed his eyes and concentrated on working the spell.

"_Oriri, oriri. Rwasundi aperio . . ._"

* * *

There was a loud whooshing noise in her ears and the girl spun around, but she didn't see anything behind her but the empty alley. The sound came again, causing her ears to ring, and suddenly there was something in front of her. It looked like a man, but its face was scarred-looking, almost fleshless, and framed by the hood of a ratty gray cloak. It grinned at her, splitting its disfigured face grotesquely.

She screamed and thrust her hands forward, trying to push the thing away, but another whooshing sound flooded through her brain and her arms flailed, shoving through nothing as the creature vanished from in front of her. She lost her balance and tumbled to the alley floor where another rush of noise disoriented her. This time she also heard the beeping drone that usually accompanied a truck that was backing up.

The girl glanced around, only to see that she was right. A garbage truck had suddenly appeared in the alley right beside her. It was holding the dumpster she had used as a hiding place high above her head. The truck began to lower it back to the ground, and the girl scrambled frantically to get out from underneath.

She scuttled along the ground and the whooshing came once again. She glanced up to see the figure in the gray cloak had reappeared over her. Letting out a yelp, she pushed herself back away from him. She landed flat on her backside, looking up into the alley, where everything around her was suddenly quiet and empty.

No Freddie Kruger in a cloak. No garbage truck trying to squash her with a dumpster. No more strange whooshing sound. No sound at all, in fact.

That was weird. A few seconds ago, everything had been crazy. But now it was exactly the opposite – unnaturally quiet. She couldn't hear the wind through the alley or even the sounds from the street half a block away. It was as though she sat inside a bubble of stillness that pushed everything else out.

The girl glanced around. The money pouch was still a few feet away where she had dropped it. She went to push herself into a standing position to retrieve it when she felt something scratchy beneath the fingers of her right hand. There, on the ground, was that ugly looking mini-broom. She gathered it in her fingers as she rose to her feet.

She stared at it again, distributing her uncertain glare between it and the silent alley around her. This time, instead of tossing it away, she shoved it into the pocket of her shorts.

Like an explosion of sound, the noises of the city returned to her ears. It was so sudden that it startled her. She took a few uncertain steps and looked toward the mouth of the alley, where a garbage truck began to round the corner. She couldn't believe her eyes. She pulled the brown thing out of her pocket again and was amazed to hear the sounds around her die down a second time. Even the truck had paused in mid-turn.

"Whoa," she breathed.

A strange smile spread over her face. She looked at the thing again and quickly pocketed it. As her ears met with a rush of noise once more, she scooped up the wallet and started swiftly down the alley, toward its opposite end.

Every few feet she glanced suspiciously around. If the garbage truck had appeared after that brushy thing predicted it would, then that scarred man must be somewhere around too. She checked behind her for any sign of him as she trotted through the shadows. She was so intent on searching for someone behind her, that she almost didn't see the person who had stepped directly into her path.

She stopped just short of plowing into him. However, it wasn't the disfigured creature in a cloak. Instead it was a tall man with an angular face and a black suit.

"Hullo, sweetheart," he said in a syrupy English accent. "I think you have something that belongs to me."

* * *

Ethan Rayne smiled at her.

The young girl started, and it looked to Ethan like she was going to bolt. He reached out quickly and grabbed her by the wrist. She let out a sharp squeal, and he was forced to tighten his grip. "No, no. Not gonna hurt you, love," he grunted as she struggled against his hold. "All I want is my talis—"

_THWUMP._

The next thing Ethan Rayne knew, he was staring at the tops of the buildings around him from the flat of his back.

"Oh," he groaned as the wind returned to his lungs. He heard the clomping sound of oversized shoes running swiftly down the alley. He forced himself onto his front, stretching a hand forward. "No," he grunted. _"Vincire!"_

Two more running steps, and the girl hit an invisible wall. She bounced backward from it and landed on her backside with a thud. She looked up to see a diaphanous barrier filling the width of the alley and stretching high above her head. Green energy shimmered through it like watery glass. She shot to her feet and pounded against it, emitting little panicked grunts with every strike. The green light flared up more intensely wherever she made contact with the wall, but the obstruction didn't budge.

By this time Ethan was back on his feet. He brushed himself off with a groan and straightened his jacket as he began taking steps forward once again. "Look, little girl," he droned, "like I was saying – all I want is the talisman. Just that brown bristly thing, and then you can go. So give it here like a good girl."

She backed up against the clear solid wall as Ethan reached her. "I – I don't know what you mean," she lied.

Ethan rolled his eyes. "Bollocks," he said in a bored and agitated voice. "I traced its elemental signature to this alley, sweets, and you're the only one here. Let's have it, right?"

The girl eased along the wall like a cornered animal.

Ethan groaned at the drama of it all. "Look, kid, see that wall of energy behind you? Well, I'm doing that. I'm a very powerful sorcerer, and little girls shouldn't mess with very powerful, very _serious_ sorcerers. I don't have time to muck around here, so if you'll just hand it over—"

She rushed him with a wild cry, and Ethan found himself tackled to the ground. But that wasn't the strange thing. Finding himself tackled to the ground and landing nearly 20 feet down the alley . . . now _that_ was strange.

"Bloody hell!"

In an instant, she was back up again, hauling him right along with her, twisting his arm firmly behind his back and shoving him, face-first, up against a wall.

"Ow, ow, ow . . . ," Ethan repeated over and over as he felt a sharp wrenching pain spike down the length of his arm. He certainly hadn't expected this. He struggled to gesture toward the girl with his free arm, already formulating a stasis spell in his head. His concentration was broken when he felt himself whipped around and shoved again, this time with the wall to his back.

"Leave me alone!" the girl yelled, her small hands fisting into his lapels to hold him in place. "Or I'll – or I'll _kill_ you!"

Ethan looked down at his minute assailant. She was easily half his height, yet she was stronger than at least three of those military chaps who had hauled him off to Nevada. Maybe more. The last time he'd been manhandled like this . . .

_Wait a second._

Abnormally strong little girl.

Evil-spewing Hellmouth in the vicinity.

_Well, I'll be buggered._

Ethan suddenly cracked another smile as he stared down at her.

"What?" she angrily demanded, shaking him so hard that his teeth seemed to rattle when she jarred him against the wall. Still, he kept smiling. "What are you _smiling_ at? I'm serious - I'll kill you. I'm sick of people looking at me like I'm some kind of _freak_!" Her last few words came out as a shrill shriek.

Ethan's smile widened even further. This was just too perfect.

"You're not a freak, sweetheart," he said gently. "Quite the contrary, in fact. You, my dear, . . . you're like me. Magic, in a way."

The girl looked at him dubiously, then released him – but not without one last attempt at intimidation as she shoved him once more against the wall. "What are you talking about?" she said in a low, uncertain voice.

Ethan straightened his suit jacket gave the girl another friendly grin. "You give me that talisman, and I'll tell you all about it, love," he said. "Anything you want to know. I promise."

The girl slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out the brown charm, eyeing him suspiciously as she did so. Ethan covered her hand with his own very quickly, before the Rwasundi disturbance had time to take effect. He removed the totem from between her fingers and slid it cautiously into his own pocket.

He could have left then. He could have reneged on his promise to tell the little troublemaker anything. It would only be too easy to whip the charm out once more and disappear under a cover of temporal chaos.

His smile added a crafty twinkle to his eyes.

But why would he want to do any of that?

Especially when it seemed as though Ethan Rayne had just met the next Slayer.

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

**Endnotes:** Several references are made to specific episodes of BtVS throughout. In particular, the Rwasundi talisman and the effects of Rwasundi power are both references to _Dead Things_. (Even though there was no talisman in the episode, the magic fit, so I invented one.)

The title of this work is taken from the lyrics of "Shape of My Heart", by Sting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Warnings:** Nothing in this chapter, but future trigger warning for violent content, some of which involves children.

**Chapter Summary:** Rupert Giles didn't understand when he, the apparent black sheep of the Council, had suddenly become the über-Watcher.

. . . And the simple fact that he had actually _formulated_ that last thought told him he had spent far too much time exposed to the verbal disaster that his own Slayer called 'English'.

* * *

**_Geometry of Chance_**

_by Rummi_

* * *

**II.**

Rupert Giles had been living out of a suitcase for what felt like months at this point. Initially, there had been all those trips to collect the Potentials during the onslaught of the First. Now, however, he actually shared the responsibility of tracking down all the newly activated Slayers.

Giles didn't understand when he, the apparent black sheep of the Council, had suddenly become the über-Watcher.

. . . And the simple fact that he had actually _formulated_ that last thought told him he had spent far too much time exposed to the verbal disaster that his own Slayer called 'English'.

He tugged his suitcase behind him through the terminal of the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, listening to a very jittery witch on the other end of his mobile phone.

". . ._ The coven in Devon got a lock on this one last night_," Willow's voice sounded tinny through the earpiece. "_She's definitely in Cleveland, Giles. No doubt._"

"Any idea where, exactly?" Giles asked, balancing the phone on his shoulder and fumbling to tuck his passport back into his inside breast pocket with his only free hand.

"_We're working on it,_" Willow answered. "_We keep getting some mixed signals on our end. There are so many of them, Giles._"

"But you're certain the power signature you detected is coming from here?" Giles asked. "I'd hate to land in Cleveland and learn that the Slayer I'm seeking is actually in Tuscarora."

"_Absolutely, positively_," Willow affirmed. "_The seers definitely pinpointed the location near the second Hellmouth. Though I'm sure there's probably an SIT somewhere in Tuscarora, too_," she added_. _"_New Slayers seem to be popping up everywhere._"

"See what you can do about pinning down a specific location," Giles replied. "Many more people are going to learn about Slayers eventually, simply because there _are_ so many now. But that doesn't mean I should use a bullhorn to announce my presence while looking for the girl."

"_Yeah, hello? Anyone out there suddenly get abnormally strong lately?_" Willow chuckled through the phone. "_Probably just the vibes from the Hellmouth jamming up the works_," she added. "_And our attention is a little split at the moment with so many new signals coming in left and right. Xander had to go track one down in Africa. Did I tell you that? One of the tribal lands. I can't even begin to imagine how long that's going to take._"

"I'm going to head for the hotel first, then," Giles said, glancing at his watch. "I'll check back a bit later."

"_I'll try to have more for you by the time you call back. Over and out!_" Willow signed off cheerily.

Giles sighed and slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He stepped out of the terminal and shielded his eyes from the bright Cleveland sun as he held up his hand to hail a cab. Somewhere in this city was a girl who had recently become one of the many Slayers created by the power of Buffy's scythe during the battle against the First. It made sense that there would be at least one activated in the vicinity of the Cleveland Hellmouth. Very likely, more than one, in fact. But this was the only one Willow and the coven had gotten a solid lead on so far. Giles knew that the girl, whoever she was, had probably spent the last few weeks confused as to what was happening to her – the changes she was going through.

He also knew that girl was going to need help – someone to guide her through the strangeness her life had no doubt become.

* * *

Ethan had never seen such a scrawny little thing eat so much. He watched the top of the girl's head as she practically hovered over her second plate, shoveling food into her mouth. He managed to conceal much of the outward evidence of his distaste, only glancing around at the other patrons in the diner every so often to see if they were staring at him and his scruffy companion.

When his eyes were turned toward the counter, he heard a small voice across from him. "You said you were going to tell me stuff."

Ethan turned back to the girl and saw her looking at him expectantly. It was probably the first time since the waitress had brought their food to the table that he had seen anything other than the crown of her rat's nest crop of brown hair. The girl had hung over her meal as though expecting someone to try and take it from her. Now she was staring at him, her large brown eyes curious and suspicious at the same time.

"Thanks for the lunch," she muttered. "Especially after I took your stuff."

"It was purely mercenary," Ethan replied as he waved to the waitress for a refill of his coffee.

The girl squinted at him. "What's that mean?"

Ethan turned back to her, covering his irritation with a roguish smile. "It means it was my pleasure." When the waitress refilled his cup, he took a drink without adding any cream or sugar. It was only lukewarm and he grimaced. "So, tell me," he prompted shoving the cup aside, "why _did_ you steal from me?"

"Have to," the girl shrugged. Her gaze drifted back down to the surface of the table. "No eating otherwise. The youth center that I was living at . . . they fed us okay. But after they kicked me out I had to look after myself, you know?"

Ethan kept himself from rolling his eyes at her story. "Why would a youth center expel someone your age?"

She shrugged again. "It was just a shelter, really. So kids don't have to live on the street. But I got into a lot of fights there."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "They kicked you out of a youth shelter for fighting?"

The girl's face was still cast toward the table. She looked up with only her eyes and shook her head. "Not for fighting," she answered. "If it was just the fighting, half the kids at the shelter would be back on the street." She trailed off a bit. "I just . . . I think I scared people."

"Is that right?" Ethan asked, this time with actual interest.

The girl looked around uncomfortably. "A few weeks ago I got into it with this boy – tough jerk, older than me. He used to like to pick on me because I was small. He shoved me down, and the supervisors at the shelter didn't do anything about it. I got really mad, so I hit him. He just laughed and shoved me again. Then," she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "a few days later, he did it again, only this time he tried to take the necklace that my mom gave me before she died." She fingered the choker around her neck. "Anyway, I don't know how I did it, but I pushed him clear across the room. He hit the wall and cracked it. They said he broke a rib too. Everybody was scared of me after that – even the grown-ups." She shrugged again. "They wanted me to leave; I could tell. So I did."

Ethan nodded with a small smile. So she'd only just gotten her powers. That meant Rupert's golden girl must have recently shuffled off this mortal coil. What a shame.

_Poor chap_, Ethan grinned. He couldn't quite bring himself to feel too badly about that though. One man's loss is another's gain, after all. His mind reeled with all the potential this situation afforded him. The girl had clearly not been discovered by Giles' precious Council yet, which meant Ethan had a golden opportunity here. He could shape this new Slayer himself. If, of course, he could get past the bothersome fact that she was just a little girl . . . and that she could very likely work her way through all his 'earnings' with her extraordinary appetite.

Those little annoyances aside, she was probably the best find since the Rwasundi talisman.

"So," the girl's voice recaptured his wandering attention. "I gave you your little broom back. You said you'd tell me what you know about me."

Ethan nodded with a thoughtful look. How to begin? "Well," he said, "first off, you are what we in the mystical community call a 'Slayer'."

"What's that?" The girl's face scrunched up like she had tasted something sour.

"Basically," Ethan explained, "it's one girl in the whole world who is endowed with supernatural power. So she can fight," he added a bit lamely. "And . . . er, _slay_."

"I'm _supposed_ to fight? Then why was everybody so freaked out?" She seemed confused. "And slay what?"

Ethan smirked. "I suppose because people _are_ afraid of you, sweetheart. You're bound to the demon world," he said. "And _demons_ are what you would need all that power to fight. Things most people don't usually believe in – things normal people wouldn't understand. Generally, you'd have a Watcher assigned to you, to help you."

"Is that what you are?" she asked curiously.

Ethan laughed. "Bloody hell, no," he said, before really thinking about it. When he did, he attempted to amend his tone. "What I mean is, I'm a sorcerer . . . a bit different than a Watcher. But I can still tell you what you need to know."

"Why did this happen to me?" she asked him. "One minute Billy Charmin is using me for a punching bag, and the next minute I'm tossing him across the room."

Ethan took a sip of his cold coffee. "I'd imagine because that's the way it works. You're the Chosen One," he explained with a small shrug. "There can be only one Slayer at a time, and the one before you was probably killed," he added, rather indelicately. "Doing something repulsively noble, no doubt."

Tactless or not, the news about the previous Slayer's demise didn't seem to faze the girl. "So I fight demons?" she asked. Her voice was small and impressed as she added, "Cool."

"Vampires, traditionally," Ethan said. "Though, yeah. The Slayer actually does all kinds of damage in the demon world."

Shifting in her booth, the girl leaned across the table to speak to Ethan in a low tone. "I saw a demon," she said secretively. "In the alley. He was all wrinkled and scabby, and he wore a gray cape."

"Probably just a hallucination," Ethan muttered off-handedly as he downed the rest of his coffee like bitter medicine.

The girl looked disappointed, even a little betrayed. "But – but you said demons are real."

Ethan raised his eyebrow at her. "They are, sweets," he said. "But you were using the Rwasundi charm. Unless you keep it in your hand, time gets all distorted around you, and it causes pretty vivid hallucinations. Seeing a Rwasundi demon is pretty common for people exposed to the talisman. It wasn't really there."

"The garbage truck that almost squashed me was really there," she countered.

"I repeat," Ethan sighed, "_time out of whack_. A few things happen out of order until the spell wears off."

"So it was a real spell?"

"As real as they get," Ethan said in a bored tone as he dropped a few bills on the table to pay for lunch.

The girl cocked her head as she watched him. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked. "Don't you care that I tried to steal from you?"

Ethan swallowed his impatience at her questions as he forced up a grin. "I'm something of a thief myself," he answered plainly. "Guess we're sort of kindred spirits."

The girl smiled. "What's your name?"

"I'm Ethan Rayne," he replied, holding his hand across the table. She took it with just her fingertips. _How utterly girly._ When she didn't say anything in response, he gave her a prodding glare. "Are you going to tell me your name, love, or do I have to give you one?"

The girl almost looked like she blushed. "It's Frank," she said. At Ethan's skeptical stare, she revised her answer a bit. "Frankie." She shrugged. "People call me Frankie."

Ethan continued to stare for a moment before bursting into indiscreet laughter. _So she was trying to play up the tough girl routine, was she?_ "Oh, you're such a bloody liar," he chortled in spite of himself.

"What?" she said, a bit piqued. "That's my name."

Ethan nodded, still chuckling. "Fine," he said. "_Frankie_. I'll call you that – just so long as you don't expect me to do it with a straight face."

Frankie shrugged again.

"So you have no family to speak of?" Ethan asked, trying to smooth over the girl's hurt feelings. _Damn it, he didn't know how to talk to an adolescent._

She shook her head. "I got this cross from my mother before she died, but that's it. She said it was for luck."

"She wouldn't be wrong," Ethan said. "You found me, right? Tell you what, Frankie," he added, still grinning as he said the girl's name. "How about you come with me. We can get out of here, and I'll show you a little bit of the world you belong to now."

Frankie looked like she was trying to stay irritated at Ethan for mocking her, but her expression looked intrigued at the idea. "Are you really a sorcerer?" she asked.

Ethan smirked and held out his hand across the table. Frankie eyed it like it was going to do something magical. When it didn't, she turned her eyes to his still-smiling face and slipped her hand into his.

Ethan pulled his other hand from his pocket and opened his fingers. In his palm was the small brushy talisman he had taken back from her in the alley. As soon as she saw it, the world around her seemed to stop: The conversations halted to an immediately eerie quiet; the people walking around paused in mid-step; the waitress at the next table froze as she poured coffee into a customer's mug. The brown liquid hung in mid air between the pot and the cup like a gelatinous blob.

Frankie's eyes went huge in her face. "Wow," she breathed.

Ethan clutched her hand tightly and pulled her with him from the booth. "Quick," he said, tugging her toward the open cash register. Frankie continued to look around, spellbound at what she saw.

"They're all _frozen_!" she squeaked.

"Not really," Ethan droned, unimpressed. "Just from our perspective because we have this." He held up the charm. "From their point of view, time is going just as wonky as it did for you in that alley. We don't see what they are seeing because we're outside their time. Now hold this." Ethan shoved the Rwasundi talisman into Frankie's opposite hand. "Don't let it go, and don't let go of me."

Frankie's fingers tightened around Ethan's hand. He winced. He'd forgotten how it felt to have a part of his body wrung by a Slayer. He pushed it to the back of his mind as he reached carefully into the cash register and pulled out a handful of bills.

As soon as he'd finished, he tugged the young girl toward the door. "Let's go."

When they reached the exit, Ethan slipped the money into his suit pocket and gestured for Frankie to give him the talisman back. She did, and he tucked that away too. Almost immediately, the motion of the diner returned, though the place was now in utter chaos. People were in different positions, dishes were broken, and everything was in confusion.

Frankie watched the events around her with an odd fascination. When she felt another gentle tug on her hand, she allowed Ethan to lead her out the door.

Ethan smiled to himself, as though he alone had insight into a private joke. This was absolutely perfect. A little training, and this girl could be his ticket to greatness around here. After all, who's going to challenge a man with his own Slayer?

* * *

Giles was just getting back to the hotel room when his mobile rang. He fumbled with the card key while reaching for the phone at the same time. By the time he grabbed the door handle, the little green light had gone out, and the door was locked once more. "Bloody hell," he grumbled under his breath. Traveling always made him testy, especially with this much jet lag. He should be eating dinner and relaxing with an evening glass of twenty-year-old scotch by now.

He sighed and pulled the ringing phone out of his pocket.

"Willow?" he said by way of a hello. "Have you found anything?"

"_Could be something_," she answered. "_Could be nothing. Either way, it's way weird. Hi, Giles._"

Giles smiled as he slid the card key back into the lock and successfully opened the door. "What happened?" he asked as he stepped inside and flipped on the lights.

"_The coven was tracking that signature we found and . . . suddenly it went ker-blooey_," Willow replied.

Giles frowned. "They lost it?" he asked.

"_Not lost,_" Willow said. "_Just went way off the weirdness scale. It was powerful enough in itself, like all the Slayer signals have been so far, but then it seemed to intensify. Like the energy around it heightened, froze, and died out. After a few seconds it was normal again._"

"Any idea what caused it?" Giles asked.

"_No,_" Willow said. "_But it was different. Like an outside force was suddenly surrounding the original signal – or adding to it. We're still working on pinpointing a location for you._"

"Try to do it as quickly as you can," Giles said, consciously trying to sound more encouraging than nagging. He knew how hard Willow had been working. "I'm going to try a locator spell of my own."

"_That's hard when you don't even know who you're looking for._"

"Yes, I realize that," Giles replied, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "But we at least know we're looking for a Slayer. I may be close enough to the source of the signal to get some type of bead on it. It's worth a try in any case."

"_Give me a call if you find anything,_" Willow said. "_We'll keep doing everything we can from our end._"

"I know you will, Willow," said Giles comfortingly. "It's been a long trip for me, and you've been working non-stop as well. I'll perform one locator spell today and then we'll try again once we've both rested."

"_We'll find her, Giles,_" Willow said optimistically. "_This one's just been a little tricky, is all._"

"Of course, you're right." Giles nodded, even though he knew Willow couldn't see it. "I'll speak with you later."

He snapped the phone shut and glanced around the hotel room. For as numerous as the Slayers were now, some of them were even harder to track down than Buffy had been when she'd first been called. It seemed this was one of them.

Giles drew the blinds and dimmed the lights, preparing the materials he would need for the locator spell.

* * *

Frankie looked around the sparse apartment to which Ethan had brought her. It wasn't much, but it was still way better than the abandoned one she had been living in with a bunch of other homeless people for the last few weeks. The windows had glass in them at least. That was a start.

She paced the main room, looking things over, while Ethan picked up a few items off the floor and the sofa.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," he said as he went. "Been living a bachelor's life, you know. But there's room enough."

"Can I get a soda, or something?" Frankie asked as she stared out the apartment window. The brick building next door blocked most of the view.

"I have water," Ethan said as he poked his head out of one of the doorways off the short hall. "And beer. That's all at the moment."

"S'okay," Frankie shrugged nonchalantly as she turned away from the window. "I'll take a beer."

Ethan raised an eyebrow at her as he made his way back down the hall toward the living room. "How old are you, anyway?" It seemed a question he should have thought to ask from the beginning.

"Seven— no, _eighteen_," Frankie lied quickly.

Ethan scoffed. "And if you're not a minor, what were you doing at a youth shelter?"

"I just look young for my age," she replied with her chin raised.

Ethan shrugged in response. "Well, I'm not your bloody parent. No concern of mine what you drink."

Frankie's mouth quirked upward. She stepped toward the refrigerator in the small kitchen, opening it. "Hey!" she exclaimed immediately. She pulled out a can of Pepsi. "You said you didn't have any soda!"

"That," Ethan said, hurriedly snatching the can away from her, "is not for drinking."

"Why?" Frankie asked. "Is there a thumb in it?"

"Excuse me?" Ethan squinted at her.

"Yeah," Frankie explained, hopping up on a bench beside the kitchen island. "This girl I knew at the shelter, she said before she ran away from her mother, the woman used to hide thumbs and toes and stuff in soda cans and pudding containers – you know, so she could bring it back to the company and sue them for, like, a million dollars. I said I didn't believe her and I asked where she got the thumbs, and she said her mom knew people at one of the old factories who lost thumbs all the time, . . . you know in the combines, or whatever. So she would take them and plunk them in the soda can and then pretend to be all mentally scarred when she found them there. The girl I knew said it worked, but I guess her mother did it so much that the cops got suspicious."

Ethan just blinked at the girl. _Quite the bloody motor-mouth, that one_. He shook his head. "While I'm sure that mixing dismemberment with snack foods is a fascinating hobby," he said, "I'm actually using the soda as a replacement for Paluka blood."

Frankie wrinkled her nose. "Yeah, because _that's_ not gross."

Ethan rolled his eyes. "A Paluka is a demon," he explained. "They're small and fairly rare in this climate. But their blood is used for a lot of spells. Carbonated beverages have many of the same properties. Especially the brown ones. And it's cheaper. Ergo, the soda."

"Oh," Frankie said as though it all made perfect sense. She pulled out a beer from the fridge and twisted the top off with little effort. She raised the bottle to her lips and paused, as though expecting Ethan to stop her. When he didn't, she tilted her head back and took a drink. She immediately gagged and made a revolted face. "Oh, my God, that's disgusting!" she exclaimed. "How can you people drink that stuff?"

Ethan glanced at the bottle as she shoved it across the table toward him. "Well, I'm certainly not drinking _that_ one now," he said distastefully. "I'll chalk that up to a solid 'you-owe-me'. When you have the cash, you get me another bottle."

"What? You can drink it; I don't have cooties," Frankie grumbled. "Although there was this kid at the shelter. I think _he_ did. And not the fake, pretend kind – but a real, actual cootie."

Ethan groaned and leaned against the sink. "Must you always yammer so?"

Frankie shrugged. "I don't know what that means." But she must have, because she did manage to shut up for a few blessed seconds.

Ethan grumbled to himself and reached into the cabinet behind him for a glass. He filled it with water from the sink and slid it across the table to the girl. He was beginning to think that allowing an adolescent Slayer to follow him home like a puppy may not have been his best idea – no matter how handy she may be later.

Frankie looked at the glass in her hands and then took a small sip. After a moment's pause, she glanced up at Ethan from across the table. "Can I ask you a question?" she said.

"If you must." Ethan sat down on the bench across from her.

"What we did today, at the restaurant?" She waited for him to nod in acknowledgement. "Is that what we _do_?"

"You mean the magic?"

"I mean the taking money from the register. Is that, you know, what we do? Besides the demon hunting, I mean."

Ethan tilted his head and glared at her hard. "Don't tell me I'm about to get a morality lesson from a pre-teen pickpocket," he said harshly.

"No, no!" Frankie amended. "No, don't get me wrong, I thought it was wicked-cool. I just . . . thought it was weird, you know. I mean, you said you were sort of a thief. So if you were going to steal, why not take it all?"

Ethan sat back and crossed his arms. "Because I didn't need it all. Moderation, little girl. It was a hard-learned lesson."

"So why did you pay for our meal?" she pressed.

"With the way you wolfed down two plates of food and how many times that testy waitress refilled my sodding-awful coffee? We weren't exactly the least conspicuous couple in the establishment, love. If money's missing from the register, _and_ we skipped out on our bill, where do you think the suspicion would go."

Frankie smiled approvingly. "So we're staying on the down-low," she said. "Under the radar."

"Sure, kid," Ethan returned. "Whatever."

"So, this is what we do: robbery and demon hunting," Frankie reiterated with a favorable nod. "It's not so bad. And so far it's not that different from what I used to do. Except way cooler! You know, with the magic, and all."

Ethan laughed. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said. "Petty theft just pays the bills. And, to be perfectly honest, the demon hunting's not really my personal _forte_. But follow me."

He led her down the short hallway to the room at the end. Its entrance was covered by a thick dark curtain instead of a door. He pulled it aside and ushered Frankie over the threshold. "This, my girl, is what I do."

Frankie's eyes traveled over the lengths of shelves lining the walls of the room. There were candles on nearly every surface and jars containing so many unknown substances. Some of them were labeled with words she didn't think she would ever be able to pronounce. There was a pentagram sketched on the floor near the blackened windows and a circle drawn with colored sand in the middle of the room. There was a statue near the back wall – white, marble-looking, with burning incense at its base. The entire room had a faintly stinging smell, like pine and pepper.

"Wow," Frankie muttered with genuine interest. "You know this is the type of room that weird men take little girls to murder them."

"Well," Ethan said. "I'm not all that weird; just ambitious. Plus you could probably take me in a fight."

Frankie took a couple steps through the room, taking in everything around her. "So this is all magic stuff," she mused. Turning quickly to Ethan with a large smile, she asked, "Will you teach me?"

Ethan chuckled. "It's not really something you can teach, you know. A lot of it hinges on whether or not you have the gift for it. So few people do."

The girl jutted out her chin, pouting. "You said the Slayer _was_ magic."

Ethan regarded the girl with interest. "There's certainly a magic about you. Has to be in there somewhere for a Slayer to become what she is. Not sure how it would translate to spell-casting, but we'll see."

Frankie stepped over to a nearby table and placed her hand inside a shallow cedar box. "What about this?" she asked as she removed the object inside. In between her fingers was the barrel of a silver Ruger pistol. "Is _this_ supposed to be magic?"

"Some may have thought so once," Ethan replied, "around the time of its conception. One thing it _is_ is loaded. So be careful with it." He smirked. "For when magic just isn't enough."

Frankie smiled back. "Will you teach me _this_?"

Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. "Not exactly the Slayer's weapon of choice," he said. "They tend to favor the sharp, pointy, and wooden variety."

"_Real_ wooden stakes? Seriously?" Frankie's lip curled slightly as though she seemed unconvinced.

"Well, don't forget: Vampire Slayer, first off. Stake to the heart and all that rot," Ethan said.

Frankie snorted. "And do vampires actually say things like, '_I vahnt to suck your blaad_'?"

"Only in the movies, sweetheart," Ethan assured her. "And I guess Slayers do tend to get a bit more creative than stakes and crosses, as well. Most other weapons are purely improvisational, but," he added, "I suppose if you're going to be fighting, it's best to learn to use what you can."

Frankie seemed very pleased at the prospect.

"Now, sweets, if we're going to be working together, we should probably have a chat about the rules," Ethan said. "After that, we'll talk about what comes next."

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

**Endnotes:** The OC of Frankie is loosely based on the characterization and mannerisms of Natalie Portman's portrayal of Mathilda in _Léon: The Professional_. Since Wickedfox's mainp (found here: sharelle**dot**livejournal**dot**com/447799**dot**html) used images from that film, the character herself also served as a partial inspiration.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Warnings:** Future trigger warning for violent content, some of which involves children.

**Chapter Summary: **"I guess I'm saying that I'm sorry about your Slayer. But you _can't_ have _mine_."

* * *

_**Geometry of Chance**_

_by Rummi_

* * *

**III.**

They hit four different places that week. The most recent had been the gift shop of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History. A day earlier, they had gotten several hundred dollars from the admission booth at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Ethan had to admit that having a child with him opened doors to new possibilities he hadn't considered before. For one thing, he felt less conspicuously suspicious walking into certain establishments hand-in-hand with a cute little doe-eyed girl. Once Frankie got cleaned up, the kid actually had a pretty sweet face and nice large eyes. She could look charmingly innocent when she wanted to and Ethan felt that could only work in his favor.

She hadn't taken to the magic aspect of the work, and she quickly grew bored of trying. That didn't bother Ethan much, however. He preferred when she kept her hands off his things anyway. Of course, he may have even orchestrated a few spell failures in the hopes of getting her to lose interest.

He didn't know the first thing about training a Slayer to use her own innate abilities, so he got her a punching bag and set it up in the back room. It wasn't long before she brought it crashing down – and a good chunk of the ceiling with it. He decided that he would have to choose his training materials more wisely, or he was going to end up spending all of their money on new equipment and repair jobs.

Ethan was already certain he wouldn't be getting his security deposit back.

Ultimately, he picked up a pair of boxing target mitts that he could wear on his hands as she trained. He figured it would give her a chance to practice on small moving targets, rather than a stationary punching bag. What he hadn't realized was how badly it was going to sting when she punched into them.

"Ouch." Ethan shook out his throbbing right hand after a particularly long training session. "Careful there, love. A sorcerer's hands are his instruments, you know."

"Sorry," Frankie said, chewing remorsefully at her bottom lip. "I'll try and ease off."

"No, no," Ethan grunted. "Want you at the top of your game, of course." He slipped his numb hand back inside the mitt. "And don't drop your shoulder."

Frankie looked at him quizzically. "What does that mean?"

Ethan thought for a moment. "I haven't the foggiest idea," he said. "They always say that in the pictures, though. I figured it would be good advice. Now try again."

Frankie followed with a series of punches into the mitts. Ethan attempted to keep her alert by constantly moving his hands around. After a few successful jabs, she failed to track one of his movements, got through his guard and struck him squarely in the nose. Ethan went down like he was made of lead.

Frankie's hands flew over her mouth. "Oh, God! Oh, I'm so sorry! Ethan, are you okay?"

"Ow," Ethan muttered lamely as he tried to sit up. Frankie fell to her knees and tugged on his arm to help.

"I'll get you some ice!" She dashed for the door, her long coltish legs clumping noisily down the hall. She quickly returned with a cube of ice wrapped in a paper towel. She tried to hold it to Ethan's nose for him, but he took the makeshift compress from her fingers.

"A bit tender there, sweets," he said, his speech sounding a bit garbled through his bruised nose. "I'll do the honors."

"I'm really sorry," the girl repeated. "Did I break it?"

"Don't think so," Ethan answered, touching the slope of his nose gently. He glanced over at her concerned face. "And don't worry about it," he added with a small roll of his eyes. "It's not like it's the first time I've been clouted by a Slayer."

Frankie seemed to be heartened at hearing that and she smiled. She settled herself down on the floor beside him and drew her knees in toward her. "Can I ask you a question, Ethan?" she said.

"Go right ahead," Ethan replied, groaning as he leaned his back against the wall.

"When is this deal you were talking about? The one you need all the money for?"

"With any luck, tomorrow," he said. "I'll be meeting with a big man in the underworld community. He's got some merchandise I'm hoping to buy."

"What kind of merchandise?"

"Black arts stuff," Ethan said. "All sorts of material to augment power. Things I'm going to need to be one of the big honchos here, myself."

"So . . . ," Frankie droned innocently, fidgeting with her fingers and looking at the floor. "Can I come?"

Ethan glared at her with a raised eyebrow. "What the bloody hell do you think I've been training you for? Of course you can come. I'm going to need backup, aren't I? And how many blokes can say they've got their very own Slayer in their corner?"

Frankie beamed. "Really?" she said happily. "Ethan, thank you!" And she flung her arms around his neck.

Ethan sat there for a moment, utterly flummoxed at the pile of pre-teen girl that was hanging off him. He raised his hands awkwardly and patted her on the shoulders, then eased her gently away. Frankie was still smiling.

"O-_kay_," he said uncomfortably. "Glad to see you so eager, kid." He started to rise to his feet.

Frankie was immediately at his side to help. She looked like she was concentrating, as though helping him was the most important thing in the world. It sent another twinge of discomfort through Ethan.

"So who's the guy?" she asked once he had straightened fully. She was suddenly all business – it was almost funny.

Ethan grinned amusedly. "Bloke named Bartholomew Carter," he said. "He's a big-time underworld executive sort. Kind of like head of the mob for the mystical community around here. That's why I need you – he's going to have his own muscle; you're mine."

"Is he a demon?" Frankie asked.

"Not that I know of," Ethan shrugged. "He's human enough, but he deals a lot with demons. So he won't be any stranger to what a Slayer is. I finally convinced him to make this deal with me, but that doesn't mean he won't try for a double-cross. He may think twice with you there," Ethan added with a wink.

"You think he would?" Frankie asked. "Try to double-cross us, I mean?"

Ethan nodded thoughtfully. "It's a good possibility," he said. "But I need what he has if I'm going to build up my power. You know," he smirked, "so I can double-cross _him_ later."

"What kind of muscle has he got?" Frankie asked, her tone and words ridiculously serious. Ethan was more than a little amused at her innocence as to the real nature of the demon world. It was almost like she didn't realize this wasn't just some kind of game.

"Could be vampires," Ethan told her. "They tend to make good minions for the elite. They're not as tough as some of the larger demons, but they can be more presentable than, say, a Fyarl or a Fungus demon."

Frankie nodded once with determination and bounded around the room, collecting equipment as she went.

"What are you doing?" Ethan asked as he watched her pocket her practice stake, which had once been the leg of his easy chair.

"Well," she said cheerfully, "I thought maybe tonight we'd practice. You know, scout out the cemetery, hunt down a few bloodsuckers. I can't go into tomorrow's meeting never having faced a vampire before, can I?"

Ethan chuckled. "No, love," he said amusedly. "You don't actually have to fight Carter's goons. You just have to stand there and look threatening."

"C'mon, Ethan," she pleaded in that whiny, little-girl way. It made Ethan want to groan. "Please? You said I was a 'Vampire Slayer'. And,I mean, how threatening will I really look if I've never gotten any _real_ practice, huh?"

"You don't need practice, kid," Ethan argued. Wandering through the cemetery wasn't exactly high on his to-do list. "You just need to stand around, looking grouchy."

"I can do that," she said, "but what if they jump you? How can I protect you if the only real opponents I've ever faced were those practice mitts and your nose?" She came up to him with huge pleading eyes. Her expression looked so earnest, like she was willing to do whatever he asked. It was strange; it had been years since Ethan had had anyone so eager to help _him_. Ethan was so used to only looking out for himself. This was very new. He felt an odd twist in his stomach.

It was touching in a way – this child's desire to assist him. Sweet. So much so that Ethan couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"All right," he said before she got the wrong idea. Wouldn't want that eager smile to change into a kicked-puppy look. "Just for an hour or two. I don't much fancy hanging out in graveyards all night like _some_ people I know."

Frankie squealed with delight and returned to gathering the necessary equipment.

"You may want to give it a little bit, though," Ethan told her as she swept through the room in a flurry. "Won't be dark for at least another hour, and the vamps don't come out until then."

* * *

Giles hadn't heard from Willow for at least 24 hours. Of course, he knew that she was probably busy tracking down other Slayers whose signals weren't being distorted by the energy of the Hellmouth. During their last conversation, she had informed him that Robin and Faith had been dispatched to Sydney to locate three new Slayers in that city, and Kennedy had gone to São Paulo. Willow hinted at joining her there once she'd helped the coven track down the Cleveland Slayer for Giles.

Giles, for his part, had followed his own series of wild goose chases over the last few days. A promising power source here, an intense signal there – but each had resulted in a dead end. The Hellmouth was filled with stray energy, and without the coven's seers getting a specific lock on who they were looking for, Giles could easily spend weeks chasing down false leads.

When he finally heard his phone ring after so long, it was almost a foreign sound. He picked it up and greeted Willow with a mild reprimand. "Willow, I appreciate your dedication but for goodness sake, it must be 2:00 in the morning your-time."

"_Just about._" The witch sounded strangely rushed. "_Giles, where are you right now?_"

"I'm just getting back to the room," he answered, tossing his card key on the nightstand. "I had a late supper. Why? Is everything all right?"

"_How soon can you get to the Erie Street Cemetery?_"

"It's not far," Giles said cautiously, having a sinking feeling at what she was getting at. "Have you—?"

"_Yep,_" Willow answered without letting him finish. "_We found her. The lock was brief, but it was there. You've gotta go fast, though, Giles. I don't know how much longer she's going to be there._"

Giles didn't remember hanging up. He did have the presence of mind to grab his card key and a stake on his way out the door.

* * *

"When you said 'Vampire Slayer', I guess I kinda figured it would be a little more exciting. This is more like just walking around." Frankie clomped between the gravestones, swinging her arms distractedly. She rolled her head from side to side to occupy herself.

"You were the one who asked to come," Ethan reminded her, moving forward at an even stroll. The wind coming off the lake had cooled the night air and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I imagine tomorrow night will be more of the same. Except less with the walking and more with the 'just _standing_ around' while I conduct my business."

Frankie hopped up onto one of the headstones. "The last Slayer must have died from boredom," she grumbled sullenly. She performed an unsteady _jeté_ from one headstone to the next, then jumped down.

"Are you ready to go back, then?" Ethan asked, not even trying to mask the relief in his voice.

"I guess." Frankie kicked at the ground dejectedly. "It would have been cool to see a real vampire, though."

"You will tomorrow, I'm sure."

They began their trek back to the cemetery gates but froze when they saw a lone figure approaching them through the haze. Frankie squinted and clutched the stake she had been carrying. She felt an odd tingle at the back of her neck. "Ethan?" she said uncertainly as she looked up at him.

Ethan was merely looking straight ahead, watching the figure as it advanced. "Well," he mused. "Looks like you might get your wish after all."

The newcomer lumbered into view. He was dirty, bedraggled, and although he was dressed in a nice dark suit, he looked as though he'd spent the last several hours wearing it to roll around in the dirt. When he was close enough for Frankie to see his face, she grimaced. It was bumpy and misshapen, and when he smiled, she caught a flash of long white canines.

Frankie felt a bubbly, nervous feeling in her gut and the hairs on the back of her neck continued to tickle like mad. She glanced up again at Ethan, as if uncertain as to what she should do.

He shrugged. "Have at him, sweets. It's what you came for." He backed up to stand beside a nearby mausoleum.

Frankie stepped forward and held up her stake. She slapped on her best scowl and placed one hand assertively onto her hip. The vampire growled and she felt an odd thrill at the sound. Infused with confidence from Ethan's encouragement, she spoke. "I'm Frankie the Vampire Slayer," she announced. "I think I'll call you Mr. Dusty."

Ethan rolled his eyes with a groan. She was definitely going to have to work on those quips.

The vamp rushed her, and she squatted down to meet him. In his place, Frankie imagined that bully Billy Charmin. She remembered how she had clobbered that jerk and how she wished she could have been able to give some of those other kids what was coming to them before she'd left the shelter. The vampire lunged at her, and she met his chest with her hands. She wrapped her fists around the lapels of his suit and propelled him through the air. He sailed headfirst into a nearby grave. A corner of it broke off at the impact.

Frankie smiled. She was beyond pleased with herself. She turned to look at Ethan to make certain he was watching. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement as he leaned, cross-armed, against the mausoleum. She waved back at him happily.

In an instant, the vamp was back on his feet. Encouraged further by her first successful pass, Frankie struck a dramatic battle stance and prepared to meet the bloodsucker again. She smiled confidently. The vampire rushed at her with a snarl and she countered with a well-placed hook to the face. The creature staggered back and Frankie immediately followed with a fierce backhand. It felt so natural – almost as though she had been doing this for years.

"Best to finish them off quickly, love," she heard Ethan's voice call from across the cemetery.

She nodded dutifully and, before the vampire could fully recover from her previous attack, she plunged the stake directly into its body. She watched it fall backward, then she spun around to look at Ethan again. She was beaming with pride and she searched her companion's face for that same look. She had wanted to do well for him – to show him that he could count on her to be his 'muscle'. Slaying that vampire was probably the most invigorating moment of her life, and it would never have happened if she hadn't met Ethan Rayne.

"Hey!"

Ethan's voice carried strangely to her ears. She caught sight of him at the mausoleum. He wasn't smiling at all. In fact, he looked angry. Frankie's heart lurched; she fumbled to think of what she might have done wrong. Time seemed to slow as she stared back at Ethan in confusion. Then she heard a deep growl rumble up from behind her. Frankie slowly turned her head.

She saw the vampire standing there, grinning predatorily as it yanked the stake out of its body and tossed it into the shadows.

Frankie blanched as though she had seen a ghost, and her heart gave a frightened jump. She instinctively tried to run, but she suddenly felt herself get tackled from behind and thrust to the ground. She couldn't move; she couldn't breathe. There was a dead weight on her back, and the thick, moist grass from the earth was practically filling her mouth. She squirmed, but she felt completely immobile as the vampire's heavy body pressed her down. He was so strong; she'd had no idea he was going to be so strong. Frankie felt a sensation like a set of sharp needles grazing the side of her neck above the seam of her choker. She began to scream.

Suddenly, there was nothing holding her down. The weight instantly lifted as though it had never been there. A thick swirl of dust suddenly stifled her attempt to draw breath. Coughing, Frankie surged to her knees as though exploding out of a bad dream. Her face was dirty and stained with tears. Her head whipped around, searching for the vampire. But it was gone.

Ethan Rayne stood over her with a very bewildered expression, clutching a stake in his hand.

* * *

Frankie was up like a shot. Faster than it took for Ethan to process what he had just done, the small girl had thrown her arms around his neck and was gulping down large sobs against his ear. Ethan bent almost in half to accommodate her shorter size as she clung to him, crying. After a frozen moment, he brought his arms up, patting her awkwardly on the back.

"I didn't know . . ." she whimpered. "He was so _strong_ . . . I couldn't move . . . I-I didn't know . . ."

"There, there," Ethan muttered, for lack of anything better to say. He couldn't honestly recall the last time he'd been expected to give someone comfort. And now, here was this girl, clutching him as though he was the last piece of driftwood in a rushing river. The simple fact that he actually felt the _need_ to reassure her was the ultimate indication that his life had been turned completely upside down.

Ethan had never staked a vampire before. Sure, he had interacted with them, dealt with them, even worked with them back in Sunnydale. But he had never killed one. Never had the need. Ethan Rayne had ties to the demon community; he spoke their languages – listened when they whispered. It had always been far better to remain on the fringes and watch the damage unfold than to become actively involved. It was one of the reasons he and Giles had never seen eye-to-eye.

But when the girl had screamed, Ethan hadn't thought. He hadn't even realized that he was plunging his own stake into the creature's back until he had already done it. It made him feel strange . . . to break from a pattern he had known for so long. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but it still hadn't felt wrong.

He managed to straighten to a fully standing position. Frankie had loosened her grip a little and was now wrapped around his torso. Ethan allowed his arms to rest against her back for a moment before easing her away. "Are you all right?" he asked soberly.

She nodded, but her chin quivered. She looked ashamed.

"All right, now," Ethan said, straightening away from her. "None of that."

"I'm sorry," she murmured with a slight hitch still in her voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't . . . I mean, I _thought_ . . ."

"Hush, you did fine," Ethan said, uncomfortably placing his hands back on her shoulders. He looked at the girl's face, then quickly away. "It takes some practice to find the heart, is all. Most Slayers miss on their first try."

"Really?" she asked.

"Sure." Ethan had no idea if that were really true. And lying to spare someone's feelings was yet another thing he had never done. "Tell you what. We'll get you some targets, and you can practice. You'll be a pro in no time."

Frankie nodded tearfully and wiped at her face. She began to smile again.

"I think that's enough for one night," Ethan said, pocketing his stake. "And I'm sure it was enough of a trial run that you'll be ready for tomorrow. Just as important to know the wrong way to do things, right?"

"Right." Frankie nodded a forceful agreement. She sniffed back the remnants of her tears.

They started their walk to the cemetery exit when she halted abruptly and took a few steps back in the opposite direction. "My stake," she said. "That creep threw it away somewhere. We've gotta go find it."

"You won't need it now," Ethan countered. "We're going back. We'll take another leg off my easy chair," he grumbled. "Sodding thing's no good with only two legs anyway."

"Yeah," the girl said as she took a few quick steps in the other direction. Her youthful confidence seemed to have returned. "But what if we meet another vamp on the way out? Gotta be prepared!"

Ethan gave a grudging wave of his hand and she scampered off without waiting for him. "Just be quick about it," he muttered to no one as he reluctantly made to follow her.

He heard a noise a few seconds later and halted, cocking his head to listen. Pulling his coat tightly around him, Ethan scanned the shadows. In the darkness behind him, he caught sight of another human form. Thinking it was another vampire, he gripped the stake in his pocket. Slowly and carefully, he changed direction and took a wary step toward the figure.

The opposing form prowled toward him; the shadows clung to it like a living thing. When the headlight from a passing car swept illumination over their corner of the cemetery, Ethan steeled himself, expecting what he thought would be the second vampire he would need to dispatch in one night. He hadn't been prepared for what he actually saw.

Neither, apparently, had the other man.

"Ethan," a surprised voice breathed as the shadows ebbed away from the man's face. "Ethan Rayne."

"Well," Ethan grinned in reply. "Hello, Rupert."

* * *

Giles stared at Ethan for what felt like a very long time. After a few moments, his shoulders relaxed, but his steely glare did not.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Giles asked accusingly. "Last I saw, you were headed to a military detention center for 'rehabilitation'."

Ethan shrugged, a smarmy grin still on his face. "Time off for good behavior, mate," he drawled. He lowered his voice and leaned conspiratorially toward Giles. "So good, they barely knew I'd left."

"And tonight?" Giles challenged. "What are you doing _here_?"

Ethan's rakish smile broadened. "Why so suspicious, Rupert?" he asked. "Can't a bloke enjoy an evening stroll through a vamp-infested graveyard without garnering some kind of mistrust as to his motives?"

"_You_ can't," Giles replied.

"Well, that's just a bloody shame, old friend," Ethan said. He placed a companionable hand on Giles' shoulder. "It's a terrible thing, not to trust."

In a flash, Giles had twisted the hand that had touched him behind Ethan's back and shoved him against a marble monument. "You're fortunate that I don't kill you where you stand after what happened the last time I saw you, _old friend_," Giles spat. "However, to your immensely good fortune, I have a more important duty ahead of me this evening. But I swear to you, the next time I see you, so help me, I'll—"

"Ethan?"

The small voice derailed Giles' threat before he had completed his thought. Both men turned to where a small figure was standing amidst the graves. Frankie's large eyes shifted nervously from one man to the other.

"Ethan?" she said again. "What's going on? Who is that?"

It was Giles, however, who spoke.

"Good Lord," he breathed. Giving Ethan a final shove against the monument, he released him and took a step toward the young girl. "This isn't . . . ," he fumbled. "Are you . . . ?"

"The Slayer?" Ethan finished from behind him. He smirked. "Absolutely." He stalked up behind Giles, speaking in low tones. "Don't tell me this is where you play the concerned Watcher, Rupert. Swoop in like the proverbial white knight and welcome the little lost sheep into the fold of your precious Council." He snorted. "I hardly think so."

Giles rounded on him. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? What are you saying?"

Ethan shrugged impassively. "I guess I'm saying that I'm sorry about your Slayer," he said coldly. "But you _can't_ have _mine_."

"You bloody imbecile," Giles droned. "I thought you pow-wowed with the demon world on a regular basis. Nothing's happened to Buffy. Quite the contrary – she found a way to awaken the Slayer ability in all the potential girls around the world. There are hundreds of Slayers now."

Ethan looked surprised for a moment. He blinked several times in astonishment, then his face dissolved into another amused smirk. He scoffed. "Then, all the more reason for you to mind your own damn business."

Fire glinted in Giles' eyes. Without warning, he grabbed Ethan by the lapels and drove him backward into the nearby monument again, pinning him there. He wrapped one hand tightly around Ethan's throat.

"You think this is a game, Rayne?" he hissed. "The girl is not a trophy or a conversation piece. She's not a fun new addition to your repertoire of chaos-inducing paraphernalia. She's a human being who needs the _proper_ training from a _proper_ Watcher. She's not a toy, and you're going to get her killed if you treat her like one."

Giles froze at the sound of a catching _click_ just beyond his ear. He knew the sound – not well, and not from a wide range of personal experience, but it was familiar enough to send a visceral chill through his body. He turned his head to see the young girl leveling a silver Ruger revolver directly at him.

Giles felt an ominous prickle creep across his skin. "Ethan," he warned the man in his grasp, although his gaze was still trained on the girl beside him. Her cold eyes stared into his as she grasped the pistol with both hands. "Ethan, this has gone far enough."

Ethan was smirking through the pain of Giles' fierce grip. "Seems the little lady's made her choice, mate," he said, a hint of pride in his strangled voice. "Maybe it's you who should think of leaving us in peace."

"Young lady," Giles entreated the girl beside him, "I don't know what this man has led you to believe, but I assure you he is a very dangerous—"

Frankie interrupted him by cocking the gun's hammer back with both her thumbs.

"So am I," she retorted. When she spoke, it was cold and dispassionate – not at all reminiscent of the young girl she was.

"Ethan," Giles grated, focusing his words back at the grinning man in his grasp even as his eyes remained glued to the murderous expression of the shockingly young girl. "I will not stand by and permit you to corrupt this innocent child with your sadistic dogma. Do you hear me, you bastard?"

Ethan snorted. "And just how do you plan to stop me, mate? Check the other side, Rupert. I've got a Slayer in _my_ corner, for once. What have you got?"

"This is wrong," Giles growled in protest. He turned his attention back to Ethan, his face livid with fury. "A Slayer isn't built for this viciousness, Rayne, and you know it. The Slayer stands up for what's right – for the innocent. She's meant to _protect_ people. Look at her, _for God's sake_!" he exclaimed. "Even someone as shallow-minded as you should be able to see that this . . ." He indicated the gun-toting girl with a jerk of his head. ". . . isn't _right_!"

Ethan simply continued to smile calmly. He tilted his face toward Giles. "I think you're confusing her with _your_ Slayer, Ripper," he whispered.

Giles' features trembled in unabashed rage as he stared across the small space between him and Ethan Rayne.

"Besides," Ethan added, more casually, "she _is_ protecting . . . she's protecting _me_." His grin widened triumphantly. "So you may be wanting to let me go now."

Giles froze, not making a move to release Ethan from his grasp.

"Come on, Ripper," Ethan prodded. "You're the one who doesn't want to see her corrupted. Best to do what you can to keep her from pulling that trigger, then, right?"

Giles' face hardened, and he shoved Ethan roughly against the monument, releasing his hold on him. Ethan stepped past him with a gloating grin, gingerly rubbing his throat. He moved to stand behind the young girl, who hadn't budged since pulling the gun on Giles.

"How're you doing there, Frankie?" he asked in a relaxed tone.

"No sweat," she replied, keeping her eyes narrowed at Giles.

Ethan placed a hand on her shoulder. He shook his head at Giles, whose chest rose and fell with heavy anger. "You said yourself the game has changed, Rupert," he said. "Why do you insist on following the old rules? You say there are hundreds of Slayers now?" Ethan shrugged. "Great. Go. Watch _them_."

He muttered a quick "_come on_" to Frankie, and she broke her menacing stance. She shifted the gun away from Giles and held it upright. Flashing him a defiant sneer, she spun on her heel and began walking away. Ethan gave Giles a mockery of a courtly bow, then followed behind her. The two made their way swiftly toward the cemetery exit.

Giles watched them go and every muscle in his body strained with tension. Events were spiraling out of control. And now, with Ethan Rayne involved, they could only get worse. Somehow, he had to put a stop to this.

* * *

When they were far enough away, Ethan reached down and delicately removed the Ruger from Frankie's grasp. "Don't remember giving you permission to bring this along," he said.

"You said sometimes magic isn't enough," she reminded him. "_And_ you said I should learn to use what I have."

Ethan chuckled as he listened to his own words coming from her mouth. "I suppose if Rupert ever finds out that you _don't_ actually know how to use one of these things, he may just die of embarrassment. Might be funny."

"So, I did okay?" Frankie's eyes were earnest and hopeful.

"More than okay, sweets," Ethan replied. "I'd say you redeemed yourself tonight and you'll certainly make an impressive showing tomorrow if you stick to the same formula. You've got yourself a viscous little game face."

"I wasn't going to let him hurt you," she said, her entire expression echoing her promise.

Ethan felt oddly touched.

As they left the cemetery, she turned back to him and said softly, "Ethan? You called me by my name."

He glanced down at her again. Frankie looked very pleased.

"And you said it with a straight face."

Ethan grinned again. "That I did, I suppose," he replied. "Old Rupert brings out the best in me, it seems. And you do tend to grow on a person."

_To be continued . . ._


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Warnings:** Language and violent content (Trigger warning for violence involving children)

**Author's Notes: **Creating a story around members of _Buffy_'s supporting cast is always a gamble. Most people don't flock to fandom to read those fics. Which is why the number of hits this story has actually been receiving (on both FFN and AO3) has been a very pleasant and welcome surprise! Many thanks to all of you who have been checking this fic out. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Of course, feedback is an author's heart and soul, so if you have the opportunity to tell me what you think, it would also make me immensely happy. But no matter what, I do hope my readers continue to enjoy!

**Chapter Summary: **Ethan Rayne was normally a heavy sleeper. It was a habit he really should have tried to break.

* * *

**_Geometry of Chance_**

_by Rummi_

* * *

**IV.**

Ethan Rayne was normally a heavy sleeper. It was a habit he really should have tried to break. One couldn't really traffic in the demon world without learning to sleep with one eye open, especially since bargaining with one clan usually meant making enemies with another. It wasn't always easy to juggle one's allegiances to benefit one's self and not leave a demon hoard clamoring for your blood.

Too many creatures out there didn't need an invitation.

But hubris was an awfully comfortable blanket to wrap in at night, and Ethan usually slept just fine. Which was why he was greatly surprised at waking up in the middle of the night to the sensation of being watched.

Ethan scrambled for the light at his bedside and flipped it on. The dim bulb lit up the room, and revealed a petite form perched at the foot of Ethan's bed like a small phantom.

"BAH!" He jumped, shifting on the bed and pulling the covers up to his chest like a shield. He blinked furiously to adjust his eyes to the change in illumination. When the bleariness left him, he saw that Frankie was sitting on the end of his bed, her chin resting on her knees as she stared at him with a small smile.

"You—, wha—" Ethan sputtered, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "What the bloody hell are you _doing_?"

Frankie shrugged, the secret smile still on her face. "Just watching."

"Wh—" he stammered as if he'd suddenly been robbed of any suitable words. He drew the blanket closer to his chin as though it would be enough to hide behind. "Why in God's name would you want to do that?"

Frankie shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know. I don't usually have anybody else to look at."

"Well, don't sodding look at me!" Ethan demanded. His voice nearly cracked. He continued to clutch the blanket against himself. It looked almost chaste.

Frankie giggled. "You look funny when you sleep," she said, ignoring his flustered demands. "Your face gets all scrunched up on the pillow, and I keep waiting for you to start drooling."

"Well, go . . . ," Ethan waved a distracted hand at her. ". . . wait in your _own_ room!"

Frankie eyed him curiously. "Did you ever see me sleep?" she asked.

"Only when you pass out in front of the telly," Ethan replied dismissively.

"Do I look like that?"

"If I tell you the truth, will you go the hell away?" he asked. "You look like a bloody fish when you're sleeping. Your mouth hangs open, and you make these disgusting . . . gulp-y noises. And that's _before_ the snoring starts. At night, I can hear you from in here; it's horrible."

Frankie giggled again, her shoulders squeezing girlishly around her ears. Then, her look softened, and she simply sat there staring at him for another moment. "I kind of want to kiss you, Ethan."

Ethan started, his body going completely rigid.

"_What_?" he spluttered in what seemed very close to panic. "Bloody . . . _what the bloody hell for_?"

Frankie looked down at the bed, shrugging her shoulders again. Her short hair hung partially in her face. "I don't know," she said. "Would that be wrong?"

"Yes!" Ethan insisted emphatically. "Absolutely, yes!"

"Why?" She looked up at him again.

"Because . . . ," he stammered, ". . . because, good God, you're what? Twelve?"

"I told you, I'm . . . ." At his stern glare, she amended her answer. "I'll be thirteen."

"That's still a big bloody difference," he asserted. "For God's sake, Frankie, I'm old enough to be your . . . dashing, middle-aged uncle."

Frankie frowned and nibbled her lower lip. "I'm sorry," she said, suddenly looking miserable and ashamed. "I heard what you said to that other man, and . . . I guess I thought you liked me."

_Oh, sodding hell_, Ethan grumbled inwardly. He shot an imploring glare at the ceiling and tossed the covers aside to shift closer to the crestfallen girl. He reached out with his hand and patted her clumsily on the upper arm. She looked up at him with stricken eyes.

"Oh, come on now. Don't do that," Ethan droned. "I do like you. You know that. Wasn't about to let the man take you away, was I?"

Frankie nodded halfheartedly. "Who was he?"

"Just an ignorant berk who thinks he's got all the answers," Ethan answered. "You handled him just fine. Rupert can stand to be knocked down a peg or two."

"He's not really one of the bad guys, though, is he?" Frankie said. It was more of a statement than a question.

Ethan couldn't help but laugh at that. "I suppose not, if you want to get technical," he said. "In fact, out of all the shades of gray in this world, Rupert is probably whiter than I am." Ethan shrugged. "He's got an intolerant streak in him, though."

"He said he was a Watcher," Frankie pointed out. "And you told me Watchers help the Slayers."

"They do," Ethan affirmed. "And I suppose, in a perfect world, Rupert would have found you first and had you falling in line with the rest of his merry band by now." Ethan flashed her a genuine smile and gave her shoulder a little squeeze. "But I meant what I said back in the graveyard. You are _my_ Slayer, Frankie."

The little girl returned his smile, and after a moment she crawled forward on the bed. She wrapped her arms around Ethan's middle and tucked her head into his chest.

Ethan's arms hovered in the air as though he didn't know what to do with them. When he'd first taken the girl in, it was because she was the perfect little trump card – a way for Ethan to have the power of a Slayer in his back pocket. The fact that the girl seemed to like him only worked in his favor. He hadn't considered that he would actually start to like the little ragamuffin in return.

Ethan Rayne sighed, resigned. He put his arms around the girl and held her firmly against him. He could practically feel Frankie smiling into his chest through his undershirt as she tightened her grip.

"Umph," Ethan grunted, reminded once again of just how vice-like Slayer strength could be. Frankie released him and sat back on the bed with a nervous smile. "Okay, let's get you back to bed," he told her. "Big night tomorrow."

She nodded and hopped to the floor, allowing herself to be led back to her room at the rear of the apartment. There wasn't much in it aside from the sparse training equipment, but it had a real bed with a real mattress and clean sheets. Frankie climbed in and yanked the covers to her chin.

Ethan stood beside the bed. His right hand twitched as though he was trying to decide what to do with it. After a minute, he bent down and placed it on the girl's forehead, smoothing her bangs to the side.

Frankie gave a drowsy yawn.

For a moment, Ethan stood there. Then he narrowed his eyes curiously at the girl. "What's 'Frankie' the nickname for?" he asked.

Frankie rolled her eyes long-sufferingly. "Frances," she droned, making a face. She shook her head. "I know. It's old."

A small, genuine smile quirked a corner of Ethan's lips. "It's a very pretty name."

Frankie's returning smile was hesitant, as though it was the first time anyone had ever actually complimented her on her full name. "It was my mom's, too," she replied, absently fingering the metal cross at her neck.

Ethan nodded. He stroked his thumb over her forehead for another brief second, then straightened. "All right, then," he said. "Good night, Frankie." He closed the door behind him as he left the room.

"G'night, Ethan," she whispered into the silent shadows of her room. She twisted onto her side and hugged her pillow, closing her eyes and smiling sleepily.

* * *

_Blast it!_

Giles scattered some of the materials he had been using for the locator spell in frustration. He hadn't been able to find anything. Not a trace. Of course, it stood to reason that Ethan would know he'd be looking for them. He'd probably put up a ward or two by now, to keep Giles fumbling in the dark.

Giles was fuming. He had spoken with Willow, but there was very little she could do from England to help that Giles wasn't already doing. She could back him up with some sympathy and stern scowling over the phone, but, being so far away, that was it. She had offered to come to Cleveland right away, but Giles had refused. It wasn't because he didn't want her to come; truth be told, he would have been grateful for her help. But Giles didn't think he could justify using the amount of energy required for teleportation in this case. The world wasn't exactly ending, after all.

It would take far too long for Willow to get here without magic, and Giles knew that he would have to act as quickly as possible if he wanted to get that innocent girl away from Ethan Rayne's influence. Which meant he was on his own for the time being.

Giles scowled.

_Ethan-bloody-Rayne._

Giles had never been so sickened by the lowlife's actions as he was at this moment. Ethan had performed many despicable acts in his day. However, this had to be, without a doubt, one of the worst. He was using a child as a means to his own selfish ends – whatever those might be – and Giles would not permit that to continue.

This girl was a Slayer. For all intents and purposes, she was one of Buffy's sisters in battle. She did not deserve to be led to ruin by the likes (and the lies) of Ethan Rayne. Giles would protect her with everything he had.

He re-gathered the material for another locator spell. Ethan and the girl would have to leave the wards at some point. Ethan believed himself to be a brilliant sorcerer, but not even he could maintain a shielding spell while on the move.

Wherever they were now, as soon as they left, Giles would be ready.

* * *

Frankie had to double the pace of her steps to keep up with Ethan's wide strides as they walked through the twilight of downtown Cleveland. She managed to keep up with him, however, and the two marched steadily along. She felt important, walking beside him to the big business deal he had been talking about for days. She didn't know anything about this 'Bartholomew Carter, Underworld Executive' they were going to see, but she did know she didn't want to let Ethan down after everything he had done for her.

She wore her best no-nonsense expression as she trudged along beside him. She also had an assortment of stakes strategically placed throughout her clothing. She was wearing a pair of long cargo pants Ethan had bought her the other day. Functional, he had said. They were a little big on her, but they had plenty of pocket room. Frankie took advantage of that fact by also sliding Ethan's pistol into one of them. She knew he would make a show of his disapproval if he found out, but he had also said she'd handled herself well with it last night.

Sure, she hadn't actually used it. But just _seeing_ it had been enough to make that other guy back off.

And if things got hot, she wanted to make sure they were covered.

Ethan led them through a few main streets, though it wasn't long before they turned off the beaten path toward a network of alleyways. The world around them darkened as the buildings pressed closer together. After a few twisting turns, they found themselves in front of a large wooden door – one that looked far too old for the building into which it was set.

Ethan took a deep breath and exhaled, glancing down at the girl. "Ready?" he grinned.

Frankie nodded, all business. It was really rather charming, Ethan thought.

Raising his hand, he knocked.

An answer was fairly long in coming. Ethan raised his fist to knock again.

All at once, the heavy wooden door swung open and three men trooped out. They were tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed professionally in flawlessly cut suits – probably designed by someone Frankie had never heard of. But one glance was enough to tell they obviously weren't men. Their posture was erect and proficient, but their faces were as distorted as the creature from the graveyard last night. Even without sharpened Slayer senses, Frankie could tell right away they were vampires.

The back of her neck tingled steadily in their presence, but she stayed put, as Ethan had instructed.

The vampires towered over Ethan, but he didn't seem fazed. In fact, he appeared calm and natural, as though he worked with their kind every day. Frankie tried to match his self-assured composure. She crossed her arms and shifted all her weight to one leg, trying her best to look tough and dangerous. With the weapons scattered throughout her clothing and Ethan at her shoulder, her outward façade appeared infused with confidence. She wouldn't let him down.

The middle vampire turned his eyes to Ethan. "What do you want, human?" he growled. His voice was less professional than his appearance would suggest. His fangs gave it an odd mumbling sound. He reminded Frankie more of a well-dressed thug – which was probably what he was.

Ethan smiled coolly. "Ethan Rayne," he said as a means of introduction. "I have an appointment with Mr. Carter."

The middle vampire exchanged an amused look with the vamp on his right. "And what should we say this is in reference to, Mr_._ Rayne?" he asked sardonically.

"Mr. Carter is expecting me, boys," Ethan answered casually. "We have an agreement to conduct some business." He smiled. "Just tell him Ethan Rayne is here. He'll know why."

The vamp turned his eyes to where Frankie stood with a sharp scowl on her face. He grinned hungrily at her. "And who's this supposed to be?"

Frankie raised her eyebrow. "I'm his bodyguard," she retorted dryly.

The vampire snorted with impolite laughter. "Cute," he said. "But this ain't no playhouse, kid." He bent down to her level and grinned into her face. "We pick our teeth with skinny legs like yours."

Frankie's scowl deepened as she glared back at him. She wanted to look to Ethan for a signal – wanted him to tell her what to do – but she was afraid of taking her eyes off the vamp in front of her.

"Best be careful, mate," Ethan's voice filtered into the tense air between them. "That there's the new Slayer in town." He feigned a cautious tone. "Don't want to go making her angry."

The vampire didn't quake in fear at the mention of the word 'Slayer', but the fact that his smile faded and his body stiffened ever so slightly were enough to send a swell of pride and added confidence through the girl. She watched as he straightened back to his full height.

"Might be a good idea for you to run along and tell your boss I'm here, then," Ethan advised. "Before she gets cranky, that is." He leaned in toward the vamp as though sharing a secret. "You know how cranky little girls can get."

Frankie said nothing about that but tossed an irritated look at Ethan nonetheless. He didn't seem to notice as he watched the head vampire direct one of his cohorts back into the building. She shifted her stance in aggravation, casting small disparaging glances in her companion's direction.

_Cranky little girl?_

Ethan still hadn't looked at her.

Frankie crossed her arms in genuine annoyance.

A few minutes later, the vampire returned with an amused grin. He muttered something to the lead vamp, and the contagious grin spread from one to the other.

"Sorry," the head vampire drawled. "Mr. Carter says he doesn't know what you're talking about."

Ethan stood still for a moment. His jaw fell slightly slack. "That's impossible," he finally protested. "The arrangement with Mr. Carter was that I was to meet with him here – tonight. I have his money; you tell him that I _will_ have what he promised me in exchange."

"We've already told him," the vampire said. "The boss doesn't want to see you."

"I'm not leaving without getting what he owes me," Ethan growled. The sound made Frankie nervous.

The demon in front of them smiled greedily. "Mr. Carter thought you might say that," he snarled. "He also said, if that's the case, we're free to indulge in a little on-duty snack." The vampire flashed his sharp, elongated fangs.

Frankie grew tired of waiting for Ethan to give her some sort of signal to act. She pulled a stake from her belt. "Go ahead and try, you bloodsucking freak!"

Immediately, she felt a hand clamp onto her shoulder.

"Ethan!" she protested as he started to pull her away. "What are you doing? I can take these jokers!"

Ethan rounded on her harshly. "We are _leaving_!" he hissed.

The vamps' laughter rang in her ears as Frankie allowed herself to be led down the alley.

* * *

An obese man sat behind his desk in a dimly-lit room, scratching an old-fashioned fountain pen across an official-looking document. His posture was unusually straight for a man his size, and he was dressed smartly in a tailored gray business suit. The entire room where he sat smelled of cedar and expensive soap. The 'ink' pouring out of the pen as he wrote was a deep, sticky crimson.

The man looked up briefly as one of his vampire minions entered the office for the second time that night. He met the creature's eyes momentarily, then immediately returned to the work on the surface of his desk, refocusing on what he had been doing.

"They're gone, boss," the vamp said. "The sorcerer and that kid he had with him."

"Fine, Boris," Bartholomew Carter sighed in a bored tone. "Thank you."

"Meaning no disrespect, Mr. Carter, sir," the vampire persisted. "It's your business whether you deal with him or not. But he did have the money you told him to bring. Why send him away? Why not just take it?"

Carter put down his pen and glared reproachfully at his vampire subordinate. He picked up the paper from his desk and blew gently across its surface, drying the 'ink'. He folded it in threes and placed it into a crisp ivory envelope. Then he reached for a stick of sealing wax and held it over the candle on his desk. He dripped the wax onto the fold of the envelope and pressed it closed with his large signet ring. Only when he set the envelope aside, did he address the vampire's question.

"Boris, I'm a very busy man," he said matter-of-factly, folding his hands upon the desk. "As such, I have numerous demands on my attention; you know this. Allowing the sorcerer into my office, only to play a droll game of cat-and-mouse before killing him, is a waste of my time. And I have no time to waste on dispatching two-bit fools like Ethan Rayne." He stood up and walked to where a hulking, barrel-chested figure stood in the corner. Grinning, he added, "That's what the hired help is for."

An enormous M'fashnik demon stood with thick arms crossed, looking with grim expectation at its employer.

"Rayne is a minor player," Carter said. "And his persistence is starting to become a nuisance. I have little time for his games and even less interest in whatever pocket change he accumulated. When I sent him out to collect it, I assumed the police would have him out of my hair within the week. Apparently, they are more incompetent than I thought."

A slow, feral grin spread across the man's broad features. "He did, however, manage to bring me something far more valuable tonight – something far more significant. And I don't even have to part with the items he wanted. The girl . . ." Carter paused and paced a bit, running a crooked finger along his lower lip thoughtfully. "If she really is a Slayer, her presence could become a greater concern. The Cleveland Hellmouth has been without a Slayer for many years now, and I wouldn't be very enthusiastic to see that change any time soon." His grin widened, displaying a neat row of perfectly white teeth. "If you know what I mean."

The M'fashnik smiled coldly in response. "You want me to kill the Slayer?" it said, though it wasn't really a question.

"And Rayne, as well, if you like," Carter shrugged pleasantly. Then, his small eyes darkened. "Just get rid of her. Think you can handle that?"

The M'fashnik's eyes gleamed; its scaly lips split into a grotesque smile, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Without another word, it stalked swiftly from the office.

Bartholomew Carter brushed his hands together as though cleaning them of a layer of dust. "With that nasty business concluded, I'm going to step out for something to eat." He grabbed his gray homburg hat from the rack by the door.

"And, Boris," he interjected to the vampire, motioning with his head toward the desk. "Do me a favor. On your way out, take that letter and have it mailed." He placed the hat on his head and adjusted his tie. "It's for the law firm in L.A. that represents my interests. Seems Wolfram & Hart has had a change in upper management – and I just want to make certain we're still seeing eye-to-eye."

* * *

Ethan was gravely quiet as they made their way back along the side streets. Frankie had to trot double-time beside him to keep up with his pace. She could tell he was upset, but what she didn't understand was why.

She was a Slayer. Ethan had said so himself. She could have handled those creeps the same way she had handled that Rupert guy last night. If Ethan had only given her the chance . . .

When she couldn't stand the silence any longer, she spoke up. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the flat," he answered curtly without looking down at her.

"Why?"

"Need my talisman," he muttered, striding forward with purpose. "_Doesn't want to see me_, my ruddy ass."

"Why do we need that?"

Ethan groaned. "Because I'm going the hell in there and taking what the joker owes me, that's why," he snapped impatiently.

"We could have _done_ that, you know" Frankie retorted, trying to get ahead of Ethan's steps so he would look at her. "I'm a Slayer – isn't that why you brought me along? 'Vicious game face', remember? Ringing any bells?"

Ethan seemed to be ignoring her. "Should have brought the blasted thing with me in the first place."

Fed up, she grabbed him by the arm. Her grip was strong, and it was enough to stop him and spin him around to face her. "Instead of me, you mean?" Her eyes were narrowed in annoyance. "Brought your little time-warp lint brush instead of me?"

Ethan held his hands in front of him, fingers spread wide with exasperation. "Look, kid," he said, "I don't have time for this. I _need_ what Carter promised to me, and I can't risk—" He cut himself off with another groan and turned to start walking again.

"Risk what?" she retorted. "Risk that I'll screw up? Like last night, with that vampire? Don't you trust me to watch your back?"

"Frankie, this isn't a game, all right?" Ethan shot back, raising a hand as if to brush her accusations aside. "I don't have time to play bloody cops-and-mobsters with you. You're a sweet kid, and you've got talent, but every minute I waste mucking around here with you, that's power slipping through my fingers. Real power that I _need_ to get back." He shook his head single-mindedly. "I don't expect you to understand this."

Frankie glowered like she'd been betrayed. "I'm _not_ a little girl," she snapped as she jogged angrily alongside him. Her feet thumped insistently on the grass as she and Ethan cut across one of the city's larger parks.

"Bloody . . . _what_?" he droned with obvious impatience.

"You told those vamps I was a cranky little girl," she accused. "I'm _not_!" She took several quick steps past him, so she was now walking backwards directly in front of him. "I get that this is important, Ethan. Yeah, I'm young, but I'm not stupid. You let me stand by you, you let me think that I was helping, and then you treat me like some kid. I know I can help if you'd just—"

"Christ, Frankie!" Ethan stopped short, his eyes flashing with anger. "This isn't about you, all right? If I've bruised your self-esteem, I apologize; we'll work on that. But this is something I need. After three years, this is something I'm _due_." He brushed past her, as she stood stationary on the lawn of the park. "And this is something I have to do _my_ way."

Frankie watched his back as he went. Hot tears stung behind her eyes, and Ethan's retreating form began to blur. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her hurt.

"Fine!" she yelled across the park as she spun around and marched in the other direction.

* * *

_Just keep walking_, Ethan thought to himself, fuming beneath the fury of both his dismissal from Carter's door and Frankie's unwarranted tantrum. _I'll get the talisman and it will be in-and-out, just like the money heists. _He growled to himself._ We'll see the megalomaniacal bastard say he doesn't know me, then_.

The kid didn't get it. She had some crazy idea that this was about Ethan harboring a sodding lack of faith in her Slayer abilities. But that wasn't it. Three years ago he'd been at the top of his game, wreaking brilliant chaos wherever he went; a veritable Trickster figure – a survivor – using wits, instinct, and brilliance to make his mark in the world. Three years ago, he'd met with a minor setback, but that didn't mean he couldn't build himself back up to where he had been, using those same attributes.

Wit, instinct, brilliance . . . and, of course, chaos. That was where he lived, damn it. And if some unholier-than-thou hood like Bartholomew Carter was going to reject his presence, then Ethan was going to rain all four of them upon his doorstep.

After all, being a big name around this Hellmouth was what he wanted. Maybe smearing egg in the face of Cleveland's resident honcho was the best way to do that. The talisman was his best bet – sneaky, effective, with little actual confrontation. Very Ethan Rayne.

It wasn't about the kid. It wasn't even about the sodding money that he'd apparently wasted his time collecting. (Which, he admitted, he was glad he wouldn't have to part with now.) It was about _power_ – it always had been – and Ethan had bided his time long enough. It was time to get his power _back_.

It had nothing to do with the fact that, Slayer or not, he didn't want to see the girl get hurt. Not a bloody thing.

For Ethan, nothing was more important than this. _Nothing_.

He stopped.

For a moment, he stood there like a puppet with trimmed strings. His shoulders sagged, and his head rolled back to face the wide expanse of the night sky. He raised his hands in an exasperated 'why me?' gesture.

"I said, _nothing_!" he insisted to the heavens. But his resolve felt like a hollow weight inside him.

_Bugger it all._

If he didn't find the bloody pest, she probably _was_ going to go off and get herself hurt.

Ethan straightened again and, abandoning his march toward the flat, he turned to begin a swift but heavy trudge back in the direction that Frankie had gone.

He didn't expect the sudden bone-jarring impact of a massive fist slamming across his face and sending him flying sideways into the dirt.

Ethan was stunned and immobilized. He tried to crawl to his side, but his legs wouldn't stay solid beneath him. He kept toppling over – pained, disoriented, and dazed. He groaned and attempted to focus on his surroundings, but his eyes were bleary and stinging horribly. He raised his hand to wipe at them, and it came away wet and sticky.

And red. He was bleeding from somewhere.

When he finally did manage to get up off the ground, it was not under his own power. He was hoisted upward by the front of his jacket, and he hung flaccidly from a steel grip. His legs curled uselessly beneath him as his toes scraped loosely across the grass. Ethan managed to blink his eyes back into focus and stared indistinctly at the green, scaly face of what was probably the largest M'fashnik demon he'd ever seen.

"Where's the Slayer?" the beast growled without preamble.

"Wh—" Ethan mumbled groggily. "What?"

The creature hurled him backward, and Ethan struck one of the park's picnic tables. He slid off it and back down to the ground with a groan. He could see the demon's feet approaching him, and he did his best to roll himself over.

The M'fashnik bent down to his level and grabbed the scruff of his neck, forcing Ethan's eyes up. "You heard me," it growled again. "You said you had a Slayer with you." The creature leered at him. "Where is she?"

Unconsciously, Ethan felt the blood drain from his face, and his skin tingled with an uncomfortable chill. Before his brain even had time to process what he was doing, he heard his mouth say, "I don't know what the bloody hell you're talking about."

It was as though listening to another man speak the words. But Ethan knew they were his own.

They obviously hadn't been what the M'fashnik had wanted to hear.

Ethan felt a swift and crushing backhand across his jaw, and he dropped from the creature's grasp, landing on all fours in the grass. He could sense the M'fashnik straightening above him. He wanted to formulate some kind of assault or stasis spell, but his concentration was a shattered mirror, and for the moment, Ethan was too foggy to begin picking up the pieces.

There was one thing he did know for certain, however:

_Frankie_.

This thing was after the Slayer. And Ethan was the one who had paraded her in front of Carter's goons like a bloody show pony.

This was all his fault.

Ethan spat upon the grass, and the blades glistened red in the dim lamplight. He turned his face up at the M'fashnik and sneered. "Seems you got your signals crossed, mate," he rasped, his lips sticky with his own blood. He wiped at them with the back of his wrist. "Look around you; there's no Slayer here."

The M'fashnik crouched down to Ethan's level again, its face splitting into a grotesque grin. "I know she was with you," it said, its voice a harsh rumble. "And Mr. Carter's orders are to keep the Hellmouth Slayer-free."

Ethan groaned dramatically, trying to sit back on his haunches, so he could glare more effectively at the demon. "You mean that bratty little girl?" he said with a hollow chuckle. "That was just some kid from my neighborhood, you ignorant sod. Give her a chocolate bar and she'll agree to anything. It was a bluff and Mr. Carter called it. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some _actual_ wound-licking to do."

The M'fashnik displayed nearly all its sharp teeth as it smiled. "Mr. Carter's not taking any chances."

Ethan continued to glare defiantly. "If you actually think a bloke like _me_ would be able to get a _real_ Slayer to work with him, then you're bleeding mad." He sneered. "And so's your boss."

The demon wrapped its thick fingers around the collar of Ethan's jacket and shirt, twisting the fabric and yanking the man closer to its face. "Tell me where she is, tiny sorcerer, or I'll take it out of your mangy hide," it snarled. Its acrid breath stung Ethan's nostrils.

Ethan was suddenly overwhelmed by a raw rebellious fury – a strange red protectiveness that he'd never felt before, not even last night with that vampire. He didn't know where it had come from, but it banished any fear for himself to the farthest recesses of his consciousness where his rational brain couldn't reach. He met the demon's gaze with fierce, defiant eyes.

"Over my dead body."

The M'fashnik grinned. "That will do for a start."

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

**End Notes:** Some references were made to Season 5 of AtS, and the BtVS Season 6 episode _Flooded_. (An M'fashnik demon can be found at buffy**dot**wikia**dot**com/wiki/M'Fashnik_Demon. Now picture it in a suit.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Warnings:** Violent content (Trigger warning for violence involving children)

**Author's Notes: **This chapter was originally twice as long, but the pacing of the two halves seemed to require a break. (Plus, you know, cliffhangers are fun.) Which means there will be one additional segment than initially intended – 7 chapters instead of the original 6.

Also, this is the first of the sections that went unpublished back in 2005. I always had a solid idea of how this story would go, but I honestly think that the passage of time caused me to make a few different choices than I probably would have back then. Regardless of the slight differences in my plotline, I'm pleased with the outcome overall.

Once again, I'm very grateful for all the hits this story has been receiving! I do hope, if my readers have a moment, you'll also let me know what you think! Getting back into the _Buffy_ fandom has been a long time coming for me, and a little feedback helps me know if I'm getting the details right.

Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter Summary: **Ethan Rayne had never been the self-sacrificing type.

* * *

**_Geometry of Chance_**

_by Rummi_

* * *

**V.**

Frankie hadn't gotten very far before she had stopped and perched herself on a swing at the edge of the park. She stared miserably at the toes of her boots as they traced deep lines in the dirt beneath her. She had no idea what she was even doing. She wanted to help Ethan, but wasn't sure how anymore. He was the one who had found her when she had felt the most alone. He had taken her in when everybody else had looked at her like she was a freak. He made her feel like she could actually _do_ this whole Slayer thing. But when push came to shove, it turned out he didn't believe in her as much as he had said. It left her with an empty feeling inside.

With the confidence he had given her suddenly taken away, she had no idea what to do. She wanted to prove him wrong, but even if she could remember the exact network of alleys to bring her back to Carter's place, it wasn't like she had any kind of plan.

And it wasn't like she had ever actually slain a vampire before. Ethan had needed to do that for her last night. If she couldn't handle one, how could she expect to take on three? Or even more. Maybe Ethan was right.

But Ethan was going back to Carter's place on his own, of that much Frankie was certain. She couldn't keep from thinking that, even if Ethan didn't want her help, he was still probably going to need it – especially if his plan was to go in by himself. If he only gave her a chance, she knew she could help him the way he needed her to.

All she had to do was convince him to let her try.

Frankie hopped off the swing and started making her way back toward Ethan's apartment. That was where he had been headed, so, with any luck, she would meet up with him somewhere in between.

* * *

Ethan had often heard about that place beyond pain. That place where the human body settled when it couldn't take any more. That place where all the hurt, no matter how great, hit come kind of ceiling and leveled off into a steady, agonizing stream without actually growing any more intense.

Clearly, Ethan had not yet found that place.

Oddly, he remembered something he had once said to Rupert's Slayer when he'd attempted to brand her with the Mark of Eyghon: "_This may sting a little just at first. But don't worry, that'll go away once the searing pain kicks in._"

Searing pain.

Now, _that_ was a concept with which he'd grown quite familiar during the last few minutes. Karma certainly was a bitch.

Ethan landed on his back as, with one swift kick, the M'fashnik sent him rolling across the grass. The sharp scales that riddled the creature's body must have sliced him open somewhere along his middle, because he began to feel a moist warmth spreading over the skin of his abdomen. The blood cooled as the fabric of his shirt soaked it up. It clung, sticky, to his torso. His body shivered with a bone-deep chill.

The M'fashnik came to stand over him, grinning predatorily.

"Oh, for bloody Pete's sake," Ethan groaned. "If you're going to kill me, just get on with it, would you? I'm not sure how much more of the giddy sadism I can stomach."

The M'fashnik sneered. "I haven't quite finished toying with you yet, little man. Killing you quickly would only rob me of my real fun."

Ethan struggled to raise himself. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" he said dryly.

The demon bent down to his level again. "You only need to tell me where to find the Slayer," it said, in a voice as close to coaxing as an M'fashnik could probably get. "Then I'll kill you quickly."

Ethan pushed himself up on his arms to face the demon with as much strength as he could muster. "Tempting," he drawled. "But I _told_ you. There is no—"

All at once, the M'fashnik jolted, shooting to its feet like a cork from a bottle. Then it sailed abruptly off to the right. It tumbled heavily across the lawn and slammed into a lamppost by the sidewalk. Ethan's wide eyes swung from where the demon had landed to the pint-sized figure that was suddenly standing where the creature had been.

For a moment, she didn't look at Ethan. She glared at the prone form of the demon, which she had apparently tossed across the yard like a sandbag of dead weight. Her jaw was tight and tense, and her shoulders rose and fell in quick, anxious pants. Unabashed fury was radiating off her small body in waves. Her thin limbs were trembling.

"The Slayer is right here," Frankie spat.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ethan croaked out. "Frankie—"

The girl finally turned her head to him, flinching visibly as their eyes met. Her hands were clenched into determined, quivering fists, but her eyes betrayed the very real, very palpable panic she was so clearly feeling.

Judging by the expression on her face, Ethan guessed that he must look bloody awful.

He wrapped one arm around his middle and began pulling himself to a kneeling position. Frankie dashed forward to help him. Ethan's aching body protested every movement, especially with the young Slayer's undisciplined strength hauling him upright like a rag doll, but he managed to get his haunches under him without keeling over again.

"Frankie," he repeated. His voice was low and urgent in the space between them, and with more strength than he'd managed before. "Sweets, you've got to get out of here."

Frankie turned her head downward to look him in the face. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her composure breaking. However, she still shook her head resolutely. "No way," she asserted, but there was an obvious tremor in her voice. "I'm not gonna let that thing hurt you."

Ethan met her eyes and, for a moment, time seemed to stop.

Ethan Rayne had never been the self-sacrificing type. And he'd never understood those who were. The potential for gaining the power he had always wanted was the only thing that had ever really mattered to him, and if some collateral damage was necessary to keep himself in the game, then that was fine. He'd even said as much to Buffy years ago when he'd attempted to hide himself from Eyghon by using her as an unwitting substitute.

It was nothing personal, he had casually told her: "_I actually kinda like you. It's just that I like myself a whole lot more._"

Never mind that Buffy Summers had only been a few years older than Frankie at the time.

Given the chance, Ethan Rayne always cut his losses. Given the choice, Ethan Rayne always saved himself.

Always.

The sudden realization that Frankie was _not_ going to do that – she wasn't going to leave him – struck Ethan like another physical blow.

His next thought, however, was even worse:

"She's_ not a toy and you're going to get her killed if you treat her like one._"

Having Rupert Giles' voice in his head at a time like this was bad enough.

Realizing just how accurate those words probably were at this juncture was bloody terrifying.

Because Ethan wasn't going to be able to convince Frankie to leave him behind. She might be a Slayer, but she was a critically untrained one. She was just a bloody 12-year-old _child_. She was petrified, that much was obvious, and yet she was still willing to stand her ground against an M'fashnik, one of the most violent mercenaries of the demon underworld, for _him_.

To save _him_.

To save Ethan-bloody-Rayne, who had once thought nothing of branding another young girl with a volatile tattoo, just to save his own skin.

Ethan clenched his jaw until it throbbed. Time seemed to reawaken itself.

If there was one thing Ethan-bloody-Rayne believed at this moment, it was that his own skin was highly overrated.

Ethan reached out and gripped Frankie by the arm, using her to leverage himself to his feet. His bloodied grip left a twist of crimson on the sleeve of her white sweater. His battered ribs lanced pain through his body as he stood, but he managed to pull himself upright.

"I need you to do what I tell you now, sweetheart," Ethan said. He settled both hands upon Frankie's shoulders, pressing insistent dents into her skin with his fingertips as he looked her full in the face. "I need you to run."

Predictably, the girl refused. She shook her head resolutely. "It'll hurt you," she argued.

At her (clearly misguided) loyalty, Ethan felt an unconscious, humorless smile curl a corner of his lips. He forced it down again and hardened his expression. "The bastard didn't come here for me," he said. "I need you to go. Now."

Frankie shook her head again, setting her jaw stubbornly to match Ethan's. She opened her mouth to protest when a low growl sounded across the grass.

Ethan looked up. It was too late to argue anymore.

The M'fashnik was back on its feet.

Ethan used his grip on Frankie's shoulders to his advantage and turned them both so he was between the girl and the M'fashnik. He then put his back to her and faced the demon.

The M'fashnik looked surprised for a moment. It must have expected a bit more from the Hellmouth's Slayer than the skinny urchin who had suddenly appeared in the park. The demon recovered quickly, however. It displayed a wide shark-toothed smile as it sneered predatorily.

"Slayer."

Ethan stuck one arm out to the side, as though that would effectively shield the girl behind him from view. He kept his eyes on the M'fashnik as he spoke to Frankie. "Don't argue with me about this one, sweets," he said. "Go on."

Frankie held her ground and drew a stake.

The sudden rush of inexplicable affection Ethan felt in that moment was almost painful. But her actions only served to validate just how unprepared the young Slayer was for something like this.

"It's not a vampire, love," he said with more urgency. "Only one guaranteed way to survive a fight with an M'fashnik demon."

"Yeah?" Frankie asked. Her voice quivered as she continued to hold the stake aloft.

"Yeah," Ethan confirmed with a wan half-smile over his shoulder. "Run." He faced the M'fashnik again, who was grinning wolfishly at them. "I'll take care of it," he added.

Frankie let out a breathy, mirthless laugh. A small amount of her tension seemed to evaporate. "Oh, yeah," she retorted. "`Cause you were doing so well before I showed up." However, her glib comeback was still suffused with obvious fear.

"A warm-up, kid," Ethan said reassuringly. "He just caught me off-guard, that's all." He tilted his head to insinuate himself into the demon's line of sight. "Besides," he added, this time speaking directly to the creature in front of them, "I speak his language. Isn't that right, mate? Your kinds' loyalty goes to the highest bidder. So what's say we deal, you and I?"

The M'fashnick didn't seem amused. "I will tear your arms off for your insolence, little man," it snarled.

Ethan managed a painful shrug. "Hey now, we're all slaves to the wage," he said casually. "Not your fault. But if it's money you want, I've got plenty." He pulled his cash pouch out from where he had secured it inside his jacket. "You rethink your little rampage here, and everything I had acquired for Mr. Carter is all yours."

Frankie shifted behind Ethan and he matched her movement to remain in front of her. He angled his head slightly downward and directed his voice quietly and urgently back at her. "I noticed you're not running yet."

Frankie scowled at him indignantly. "I know you don't want my help but—"

"I don't want you _hurt_!" Ethan hissed sharply between clenched teeth.

Frankie recoiled and was silent.

Ethan straightened and faced the demon again, drawing his suave composure back around him like a cape. "So," he drawled, "we have a deal?"

The M'fashnik growled. "You cannot buy my mercy with paper, sorcerer," it retorted. "Mr. Carter offers more than that for my services. For instance—" The creature shifted its eyes past Ethan, its lips curling ravenously over jagged teeth as it grinned at Frankie. "The opportunity to wet my hands with the blood of a Slayer."

Ethan retaliated with a snarl of his own. "You want this Slayer, mate, you're going to have to take it up with her Watcher first."

The demon seemed amused as it regarded him.

"Agreed," it said. And charged.

Ethan felt Frankie surge behind him and he shifted backward to intercept her before she could dash past him. He knew she wasn't rushing into this fight with the skills and instinct of a trained Slayer. And the combination of fear, emotion, and untested raw power wasn't going to be enough to keep her alive against an M'fashnik for long. Ethan felt the wind jolt from his lungs as Frankie plowed into him from behind. He struggled to stay upright and keep his body between her and the encroaching demon as he raised his hand to quickly formulate a spell.

"_Vinci_—"

Ethan's chant abruptly halted as the demon reached them more quickly than he had calculated. It backhanded him out of the way and Frankie's terrified cry rang in his ears as he reeled unendingly across the damp grass. When his body finally came to an abrupt halt, his head still felt as though it was spinning away from him.

A sudden, bellowing roar from the M'fashnik forced Ethan to raise his head. He shoved through the wall of nausea that hit him as he did so, and managed to focus his swirling vision on where the massive creature stood with Frankie's wooden stake buried nearly to the hilt in its forearm.

Frankie's eyes were huge as she stared at what she had done, her now-empty hands clenching into nervous fists. The M'fashnik snarled rabidly down at her and took a vicious swing with the arm that had been impaled by the stake. Frankie let out a small scream and hit the grass as the demon's arm swept over her. She rolled and scrambled out of range in a tangle of gangly arms and legs. Scuttling awkwardly to her feet again, this time behind the M'fashnik, she dug into the pocket of her cargo pants and came up with another stake.

Ethan's arms quivered beneath him as he struggled to push himself off the ground again. His vision swam, but he managed to keep his eyes on Frankie. The girl's small size gave her a slight advantage when it came to eluding the hulking demon, but she had virtually no fighting style. She certainly didn't have the fluidity or the strategic foresight that even a natural fighter like a Slayer only earned through experience. And it was going to take much more than preternatural strength and lucky shots against a large battle-tested demon like an M'fashnik.

Ethan needed to do something.

As the demon tore the first stake from its arm and tossed it away, Frankie slashed her second stake at it with a furious cry. This time, the M'fashnik seemed to be ready. When Frankie launched herself at it, the creature grinned and heedlessly batted her strike to the side, using her own strength against her and propelling her headlong into the grass at its feet. The M'fashnik's chest rumbled with what must have been a sardonic laugh.

The monster was only toying with her.

Ethan pushed himself into a kneeling position, fighting through a tempest of vertigo to get his bearings. He watched as Frankie shot to her feet again, practically snarling with indignation at the demon through her teeth. She slashed out at the M'fashnik in a blind rage, and Ethan suddenly felt a sick, lurching sensation in his chest.

"Frankie!" he called out to her. "Don't—"

The warning came too late. The M'fashnik caught the girl's flailing wrist in a brutal hold and dragged her squirming, protesting body forward and upward until Frankie dangled off the ground in front of its face.

The demon's lips peeled back into a slow, deliberate grin.

Frankie grunted and swung out wildly. The M'fashnik compensated by grabbing her other wrist as well and holding them both high above her head. The demon must have misjudged the length of the girl's long, coltish legs, however, because a second later, one of Frankie's oversized boots connected viciously with the creature's unprotected kneecap.

The M'fashnik emitted a surprised howl of pain. Its smug smile vanished.

Enraged, the demon tightened its grip on Frankie's wrists until she cried out. She squirmed ineffectually and kicked outward again, but the M'fashnik now held her at arm's length. Suddenly it yanked Frankie closer toward it with a bestial snarl, then it tossed her savagely across the lawn.

Ethan watched in helpless horror as the girl slammed into one of the park's picnic tables. The force of the blow cracked the wooden bench in half and Frankie's body ricocheted off and rolled bonelessly to the ground. She didn't move.

The M'fashnik began advancing on her prone form. A predatory smirk once again stretched across its face. Ethan pulled himself fully to his feet, fighting a wave of dizziness as he stretched out his hand.

"_Vincire!_"

The demon suddenly rebounded from the surface of an invisible wall that had instantly sprung up to separate it from the motionless Slayer. The barrier rippled like liquid and the M'fashnik snarled viciously. The demon took a savage swing at the invisible obstruction, smashing its fists against the transparent wall over and over and causing explosions of green light igniting across its surface. The invisible barricade remained, separating the M'fashnik from its prey, and the creature emitted a wild roar of frustration.

Then it rounded ferociously on Ethan.

"Oh, bollocks."

Ethan started with genuine alarm as the demon bore down on him with wide menacing strides. He retreated back for a few shaky steps before tumbling clumsily through a wave of pain backwards onto the grass with a jarring grunt.

"Oh, _yes_, Ethan," he groaned sardonically. "Ruddy _brilliant_! Just trap yourself on the same side of a retaining wall with a rampaging _beast_!"

Ethan knew that if the demon managed to get hold of him again, he didn't have much strength left to fight back. He crab-walked frantically along the ground, but it didn't take the M'fashnik long to close the gap between them.

Ethan braced himself.

A bright red flash exploded between him and the M'fashnik. The force of the blast sent the demon flying back several feet. It landed heavily in the grass and lay there, stunned.

For a moment, Ethan just sat frozen in place, gawking in disbelief at where the motionless demon was now lying. Then his brain registered the sensation of a new presence just behind him. He twisted his neck to glance over his shoulder at the man who was now standing there.

"Rupert," he breathed.

Giles stood at the edge of the grass grasping a small, red stone tightly in his hand. He seemed to be breathing heavily as he kept his attention focused on the fallen demon for at least another beat. Then he risked a glance down at Ethan, pocketed the stone, and hurried forward the remaining yards to where Ethan was attempting to straighten himself up.

When Giles reached him, Ethan's entire body reflexively sagged with complete, bone-melting relief. "Oh, are you a sight for sore eyes, mate," he sighed heavily. Giles immediately crouched down and gripped Ethan tightly by the arms to haul him indelicately upward.

Ethan's body protested the jarring movement. "Ow! Watch it, Ripper!" he groused petulantly, hissing with the pain of being lugged bodily to a standing position. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit bruised here!"

"I knew you'd get yourself into a situation you couldn't handle," Giles muttered reproachfully. He offered a grudging shoulder of support when Ethan swayed involuntarily on his feet. "Where's the girl?"

"Oh, I'm hurt, Ripper," Ethan mused with a drunk-sounding chuckle. The blood loss was probably making him giddy. "No interest in your old friend's well-being? The white knight just _has_ to come charging in to—"

"Save it," Giles snapped, hastily cutting him off. "We'll have time for your nonsensical banter later. That demon won't stay down for long." He shoved his hand back into his pocket and produced the small red stone again to show Ethan.

Ethan stared down at the stone. It was round and faceted and about the size of a golf ball. When Ethan recognized it, he raised wide owlish eyes back to Giles.

"Are you _mad_?" he gasped, hints of panic creeping back into the edges of his voice. "You brought an altak crystal? To use against an _M'fashnik_? Why not just try knocking it over with strong language!"

Giles cast Ethan a withering sidelong look as he shifted his shoulders beneath Ethan's arm to offer more support. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered dryly. "I brought the crystal to use against _you_."

The M'fashnik growled and stirred. It planted both hands on either side of its body to raise itself.

Giles and Ethan looked at the creature, then back at each other.

"The girl," Giles urged again.

"Over there," Ethan conceded, this time without delay. "I've got her behind a retaining wall."

Giles surged forward, struggling to heave Ethan's limping body alongside him. Ethan, admittedly, wasn't being much help as they shambled along. But, honestly, it wasn't as if he was _trying_ to be difficult. This time.

They hurried past the groggy M'fashnik in a wide arc and headed for where Frankie was still lying in the grass near the picnic tables. The demon attempted to swipe at them as they passed, but it staggered from the lingering aftereffects of the crystal's dizzying magic, and collapsed back onto the ground, dazed.

However, it wouldn't stay down for much longer.

Ethan's retaining wall whispered out of existence the moment he touched it and the two men hurried to Frankie's side. Giles released his tight grip on Ethan, who slid into a graceless heap beside the girl. Frankie was stirring as they reached her.

Ethan risked a look back at the M'fashnik. "Remind me," he said. "How long does it take for one of those crystals to recharge once you've used it?"

Giles set his jaw. "Longer than we have," he replied grimly. "Best we move quickly." He rushed around to Frankie's other side. The girl groaned softly.

As Frankie raised her head, Ethan felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted. A strangling tension inside him – one he hadn't fully realized was even there – finally released its grip on him. He very nearly groaned with relief as he knelt beside her in the grass. The girl blinked her glassy, dazed eyes and seemed to stare vaguely at nothing for a moment at first.

"You all right, love?" Ethan asked, with a hand on her shoulder and a hint of urgency in his voice. They didn't have much time to waste, after all.

Frankie nodded absently in reply as she got her legs under her and pulled herself to her knees. She glanced at Ethan first, then leveled a slightly suspicious glare toward Giles on her other side. When she turned back to Ethan her face crumpled in obvious misery. Her eyes began to gloss over with the beginnings of tears. She bit her bottom lip and her chin trembled.

"I'm so sorry, Ethan," she murmured miserably. "You were right." She sagged forward slightly, bracing herself on her hands as her hunched shoulders began to quiver with the beginnings of remorseful sobs. "I couldn't handle it."

Ethan rolled his eyes long-sufferingly toward the heavens. But it was only a halfhearted gesture. So when the girl surged toward him in shame and misery he pulled her tightly the rest of the way against his chest, allowing her to bury her face in his shirt as she cried.

"C'mon, now. That's bollocks," he muttered as he wrapped his arms around Frankie's trembling body. The girl sniffled loudly into his shirt. Her grip was likely going to crush his already bruised sternum, but strangely Ethan couldn't bring himself to care.

With danger still looming, however, they didn't have much time for this. A moment later, Ethan peeled the girl off him and held her at arm's length to look directly at her. "You did just fine, sweetheart," he said pointedly, smoothing her tangled hair out of her tearstained face with both hands before placing them firmly back on her shoulders. "M'fashniks aren't lightweights. Most Slayers wouldn't face one without a good bit of experience under their belts. Isn't that right, Rupert?"

"If ever," Giles affirmed.

Ethan grinned wryly at the atypical support from Giles. "There, you see?" he pointed out. "Even the Watcher agrees."

Frankie broke through Ethan's grip and put her arms around him again. "_You're_ my Watcher," she mumbled into his shoulder.

Ethan caught the odd, questioning expression on Giles' face and he grimaced in response. "Oh, shut up, Rupert," he grumbled. He pulled Frankie away from him again. "Less talking, I think," he added with an urgent glance behind them. "More running for our lives."

Frankie crawled dutifully beneath Ethan's arm, and Giles gripped his other side as he struggled to get back to his feet. The two supported him lopsidedly between them as all three of them dashed for the edge of the park – and the public streets beyond.

A small sprout of hope began to bloom in the pit of Ethan's stomach. If they made it to the main road leading to his flat, it was possible that they could find some sanctuary in the bustle of the downtown Cleveland crowds. Hellmouth or not, it wasn't likely that Bartholomew Carter would want his minions making a chaotic spectacle of themselves on the public streets. That would be bad for business. The M'fashnik probably wouldn't follow them. Not overtly, at least. It could buy them some time.

Ethan felt a swell of relief as the heavy traffic of the main street beyond the park loomed into view. He allowed his head to droop forward gratefully. His chin jostled against his chest as the three of them hurried along. An instant later, however, Ethan's body stiffened in alarm.

An iron-fisted grip had clamped like a vice around the scruff of his neck.

Ethan only had enough time to mutter a quick, sardonic curse as the M'fashnik's massive paw wrenched him backward, out of the others' grasp, and tossed him unceremoniously back across the lawn.

_To be continued . . ._


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Warnings:** Language and violent content (Trigger warning for violence involving children)

**Author's Notes: ** The end of the fight turned out much differently than I had originally intended eight years ago. However, the basic premise remains the same. Once again, it just shows the sort of different perspective a few years will give to one's writing. See the end for a quick note on my mental soundtrack – particularly for this chapter.

I hope my readers have been enjoying the story. One part left after this.

**Chapter Summary: **Well. This was not going to plan.

* * *

_**Geometry of Chance**_

_by Rummi_

* * *

**VI.**

"Ethan!"

The brief weightless sensation of flight ended abruptly as the ground rushed up solidly to meet him. He heard Frankie scream his name. She sounded so far away all of a sudden. Strangely that thought gave him some comfort, because Ethan knew she was with Giles now.

Rupert Giles may have grown a massive stick up his arse, but Ethan couldn't deny the bloke was a straight-arrow. He'd take care of the girl. He was a real Watcher, after all. He'd get her out of here. Get her the training she really needed, and show her what a Slayer was actually capable of. The two men may have stopped being friends years ago, but at least Ethan knew Giles' intentions were honorable where the girl was concerned – certainly more honorable than Ethan's had been.

Rupert would get Frankie safely away from here – keep her from getting hurt. And all Ethan had to do in the meantime was keep the demon's focus on him instead.

Using the few traces of magic he could scrounge around himself, Ethan pushed the pain away as much as possible. He shoved himself quickly back to his feet, as fluidly as he could manage. He couldn't let Frankie think he was hurt, after all. He already knew that she wouldn't willingly leave him if she was worried for him. And Giles had to get her out of here.

Ethan would have to put on a convincing show.

He gathered as much strength as he could and spun immediately to face the demon with a confident sneer.

The M'fashnik's waiting fist closed instantly around his throat.

_Oh, bloody hell_.

Ethan's defiant sneer tapered off into an ineffectual gurgle. The M'fashnik's lips curled into a predatory grin as it growled directly into his face.

Well. This was not going to plan.

The M'fashnik continued to leer at him ferociously for another moment, then the creature abruptly turned its head and reached out in the opposite direction with its other arm. It almost seemed to pluck Frankie out of thin air as she charged toward them in a blind fury.

The girl must have gotten away from Giles. The M'fashnik seemed to have predicted she would.

Ethan's chest constricted painfully.

He struggled madly against the iron grip that held him. Searing panic began to color his vision. He wanted to snarl at the demon to let the girl go, but he couldn't force any sound past its fierce grip on his throat.

The M'fashnik turned back to him briefly with a grin, then wound its arm back, dragging Ethan along effortlessly. The demon tossed him away once again, like a discarded toy. Ethan collided bodily with Giles, who had begun to rush forward. The two men crashed to the ground in a tangled heap.

Frankie screamed furiously and Ethan raised his head from where he had fallen to see the M'fashnik dragging her toward it again. She dug her heels ineffectually into the grass; her boots cut parallel ruts along the earth as the demon pulled her forward. She struck out fiercely at the creature, but the M'fashnik caught her by the other forearm as well.

Trapping both arms tightly against her sides, the M'fashnik held her up, ramrod-straight, directly in front of it. It snarled ravenously at her.

"Puny," it sneered, "for a Slayer."

Frankie scowled indignantly. For the first time since the fight had started, she genuinely looked more furious than frightened. As the M'fashnik leered triumphantly into her face, Frankie quickly wound her head back and snapped it forward, bashing her forehead against the delicate bridge of the demon's scaly nose.

Frankie smirked smugly as the M'fashnik howled in pain, but it did not release her as she had probably hoped. Instead, it turned on her again, snarling ferociously, its eyes flashing with rage. The demon hauled Frankie forward until she was flush against the broad barrel of its chest. It wrapped its hulking arms fully around her body, pinning her arms to her sides, and spread its legs to avoid her kicking feet.

Frankie struggled as the creature began to squeeze.

Ethan disentangled himself from Giles and struggled to get up. He saw Frankie trapped in the M'fashnik's tightening grip. The girl's screams were little more than breathy, rapid gasps as the demon's crushing arms constricted like a vice around her small ribcage. Her legs had stopped swinging and her body was as rigid as a dry twig before it snapped.

"Oh, God," Ethan choked as he attempted to crawl forward. "Rupert, damn you, _do_ something!" he called out desperately.

Giles was on his feet and running before Ethan could even drag himself to his knees again. Clearly the Watcher hadn't come here expecting a fight with anything more formidable than Ethan, himself, because he hadn't brought much by way of weapons. But he did draw a stake from his jacket pocket as he reached the M'fashnik and threw himself onto the demon's shoulders from behind.

Ethan had to hand it to Giles; he was one stupidly brave bloke.

Giles drove the wooden point of the stake into the meaty muscle where the M'fashnik's back met its neck, and held tightly around the creature's throat with the other arm. The M'fashnik snarled in rage and shook its body back and forth, attempting to dislodge the human anchor from its back.

"Let go . . . of the girl," Giles growled in the demon's ear, stubbornly hanging on.

The M'fashnik stopped thrashing and released one crushing arm from around Frankie's body, but it didn't release her completely. Instead it wound forward and jammed its massive elbow sharply back into Giles' gut.

Giles reflexively let go and staggered unsteadily in the grass, drawing in harsh gasps to replace the air that had been driven from his lungs. The M'fashnik gripped a fistful of the front of his shirt and jacket, hauled Giles off the ground, and hurled him backwards through the air.

Then it turned its attention back to Frankie.

The M'fashnik wrapped both arms around her again with a feral sneer and gave one last jerking squeeze. Frankie's small body jolted as though something inside her had suddenly snapped. Her eyes blew wide and her face went abruptly from rigid tension to a sudden soft expression of surprise. Then her body sagged, her eyelids closed, and the demon allowed the young Slayer's body to drop bonelessly to its feet.

She didn't move again.

Ethan didn't cry out at first. At first, he just stared. Pain, rage, and disbelief all vied for dominance of his expression the moment he saw Frankie's limp form sprawled beneath the gloating M'fashnik. But he simply couldn't give voice to any of the torment that the horrifying tableau had triggered in him. Not at first.

When he finally did, his cry was something terrible. Something visceral. Suffused with a sort of anguish that Ethan Rayne never would have believed himself capable.

_Oh, God._

What had he done?

Ethan fought against the damage to his own body and tried, one final time, to stand. He had to do something. He didn't know what, but he had to do _something_. He reached as far down as he could, groping and scraping desperately for whatever remaining vestiges of the darkest magics he might still have hidden in the deepest places inside himself. Something . . . _something_ left to throw at the demon.

His body was drained; there wasn't much left to tap into.

So he mustered his remaining strength and threw something he did have left.

The thick money pouch slapped sharply against the side of the M'fashnik's head as the creature glared smugly down at Frankie's fallen form. The Velcro burst open and dozens of bills exploded out, fluttering to the grass and getting caught up in the light breeze that blew softly through the park. The demon cocked its head irritably in the direction from which the projectile had come. Ethan was back on his feet, swaying unsteadily, but scowling dangerously amidst the gentle swirl of scattering dollar bills.

The M'fashnik snarled at Ethan as though his interference was nothing more than an annoyance at this point. Ethan's fists clenched murderously at his sides. He glanced from the demon to Frankie's still body lying in a crumpled heap in the grass. She wasn't moving; Ethan couldn't even tell if she was breathing. White-hot fury lanced through his brain as he turned his furious eyes back on the M'fashnik.

The M'fashnik grinned casually at Ethan as it straightened and squared its shoulders toward him, completely disregarding the downed Slayer at its feet.

"Mr. Carter said I could kill you, too, if I want," the demon drawled indifferently. It twisted its neck to one side, slowly and deliberately, and Ethan could hear the distinct and ominous crack of vertebrae. The demon straightened its neck and its shark-toothed smile widened. "I think I do."

Ethan's scowl deepened. His eyes darkened. "You got one thing right, mate," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Only one of us is walking out of here tonight."

The M'fashnik grinned, snorting like an angry bull. Then it charged him.

Ethan didn't move as the demon closed the distance. His hands twitched at his sides like an impatient gunslinger, but he stood his ground while the M'fashnik stampeded toward him. Even as the beast leapt forward to bear him bodily to the ground, Ethan remained unflinchingly on his feet.

Only when the M'fashnik's arms closed around him in a crushing tackle did the illusion of Ethan Rayne wink out of existence, leaving the creature grasping at nothing as it drove itself headlong into the dirt.

A moment later, Ethan's corporeal form reappeared – still slumped weakly in the grass. The final traces of magic he had managed to harness drained away from him as the projection of his double vanished and the veil that had concealed his physical body lifted. His magic was depleted, but at least now, with the M'fashnik face-down beside him, Ethan had a fighting chance.

The M'fashnik crashed to the ground with the force of a downed tree. Ethan sprang at it as quickly as his damaged body would allow. He threw one leg over the creature's back and sat astride its torso. Ethan wrapped his fist around the stake that Giles had driven into the demon's thick muscle and yanked it free. The M'fashnik roared viciously and Ethan raised the stake again.

Rupert's Slayer probably would have inserted a cleverly-timed, pop culture quip at this particular moment, but Ethan didn't have the energy left to be witty. He plunged the stake deep into the side of the M'fashnik's throat, burying it until his fist met with the resistance of the demon's scaly flesh.

The creature let out a gurgling howl and bucked rigidly beneath him. For one moment Ethan sagged with relief, but in the next instant the M'fashnik flung an arm out and twisted its body violently from underneath. It thrashed Ethan off its back and rolled them both over so their positions were now reversed – with the demon's crushing weight straddling Ethan's stomach.

The M'fashnik curled both hands around Ethan's throat and bore down on him, snarling. Ethan groped desperately to pry its grip away from his neck, but it was like attempting to force open a vice with his bare hands. As the M'fashnik loomed over him, Ethan watched as viscous black ichor drained from where the stake was protruding from the side of the demon's throat. The blood ran down the length of its arm in grisly, sticky rivulets. Its breath wheezed – heavy and gutteral. The creature was weakening; it was dying.

Granted, it probably still had just enough strength left to choke the life out of Ethan in the process, but that was only a technicality.

Ethan smiled weakly, even as the demon constricted his windpipe. If he was going to die, at least he knew he was taking the monstrous son of a bitch with him.

It was almost funny, too: using a wooden stake to take down a huge bloody M'fashnik. Ethan's vision blurred and darkened at the edges as he thought wistfully about how he wished Frankie could have seen that.

A sharp crack, like a quick smack of thunder, rent the quiet that was swallowing Ethan whole. The M'fashnik's grip abruptly loosened and Ethan felt a rush of cool night air flood back into his lungs. He gasped in greedy gulps of oxygen for a reflexive moment as awareness returned to him. Blinking spots out of his vision, he looked up blearily at the M'fashnik.

A small grisly hole had opened up nearly in the center of the demon's forehead. A thin line of more black blood seeped from the fresh wound and trickled slowly down the side of its nose to its chin. Ethan looked at the glassy expression in the creature's sunken eyes, the slackening of its face—

The M'fashnik was dead.

Ethan twisted his head quickly to peer beneath the demon's arm. He caught a glimpse of Frankie, still lying where she had fallen, but now propped up on one elbow and gripping Ethan's Ruger in her other quivering fist. Her teeth were as tightly clenched as her grip as she clutched the pistol. Smoke from its barrel curled up and wafted softly in the gentle night breeze. She released a strained-looking breath in a heavy expulsion, her tense arm shuddered, and the weapon slipped from her nerveless fingers.

Ethan croaked thickly in an attempt to call out to the girl. As Frankie dropped the gun, the M'fashnik's body collapsed forward on top of him and he lost sight of her again.

Ethan pawed at the dead weight holding him down, shoving futilely with arms that had all the strength of limp noodles lifting an elephant. He struggled for a moment, then the M'fashnik's lifeless carcass was suddenly being dragged to the side and rolled off him. Ethan welcomed the sensation of freedom as the demon's crushing weight was removed from his body. Then he blinked blearily up toward the sky to see Giles hovering above him.

The Watcher was looking much the worse for wear, himself. He dropped to one knee beside Ethan and removed his glasses, using his sleeve to staunch a stream of blood coming from a deep gash in his forehead before it could reach his eyes. Ethan was already shoving himself into an upright position. To Giles' credit, he didn't insist that Ethan stay down. Instead he reached forward with his other hand to help pull Ethan up the rest of the way, and together they stumbled the few feet it took to reach Frankie's side.

The girl had collapsed forward onto her stomach after dropping the gun. Ethan wondered distantly when Frankie could have possibly snatched the weapon again, but he decided quickly that it wasn't important. He probably should have been surprised at how effectively she had managed to use it, even though he hadn't had the opportunity to teach her. But he wasn't. One thing about Slayers: they seemed to have an uncanny knack with just about any weapon at their disposal.

And, Ethan thought, sparing a quick glance back at the dead M'fashnik, they had notoriously good aim.

Ethan brushed the Ruger aside and pulled himself level with Frankie as he and Giles reached her. He smoothed away the short curtain of Frankie's hair, which had fallen across her face when she had collapsed forward, and gripped her gently by the shoulder to turn her over.

Ethan didn't have much left by way of strength, so he was surprised at how easily he managed to move her. The young Slayer's small body seemed very strangely light in his arms. He winced, however, at the distinct whimper of pain she'd been unable to stifle as he shifted her position.

"Frankie?" he said with soft encouragement. He smoothed her hair aside again now that she was facing him. "Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

Frankie's pale face clenched into a pained grimace before she managed to blink her eyes open and look up at him. She regarded him for a moment, then her brow furrowed. "Did I do okay?" she asked. Her voice was small and childlike, searching for approval.

Ethan smiled wearily, emitting a small huff of breath that could have been a laugh. "You were brilliant," he assured her. "Couldn't have asked for a better bodyguard."

For as battered as the girl looked, Frankie's returning smile was positively radiant. "I told you I wasn't gonna let that thing hurt you," she reminded him proudly, punctuating her smile with a weak little laugh of her own.

It tapered off abruptly as her body convulsed into a reflexive fit of coughing, causing strident, mottled splatters of crimson to suddenly fleck across her pale lips and chin.

"Oh." Ethan blanched. "What—"

He stiffened. He felt his heart twist and constrict alarmingly as his own smile vanished from his face. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Frankie?" he prodded, giving her a gentle shake as her shuddering coughs died off. "Hey. Hey, sweets, look at me, okay?"

He became vaguely aware of Giles crouching at the girl's other side to tend to her. Ethan frantically but inexpertly scanned Frankie's body up and down for any sign of injury. He knew the M'fashnik must have hurt her, but he couldn't see any visible wounds. And if she had internal injuries, Ethan had no idea what to even look for.

Ethan shifted his grip on the girl, causing one hand to slide across her back. As it did, he suddenly froze. His palm had grazed a noticeably heavy wetness clinging to her sweater. Ethan's stomach abruptly felt as though it had just turned over.

On reflex, he muttered, quietly and helplessly: ". . . _Giles_?"

Giles was already moving. He had pressed his hand against the back of Frankie's shoulder and shifted the girl gently forward to get a better view of the injury. Ethan could hear her gasp slightly at the movement and his stomach churned violently a second time.

Giles murmured a distinctly concerned, "_good Lord_," but didn't waste any time. The shoulder of his jacket had been split at the seam during the fight, so the Watcher sank his fingers into the separation and, with a few strong tugs, ripped it the rest of the way free. He yanked the fabric down his arm, rolled it into a compress, and pressed it securely against Frankie's back.

"Ethan," he said firmly.

Ethan was barely aware that Giles had said his name. In fact, he didn't truly register it at all until the other man had roughly grabbed him by the wrist, forcing his hand tightly against the compress at Frankie's back.

"Ethan, are you with me?" Giles asked, staring Ethan intently in the eye.

Ethan shook slightly, then looked back at Giles and managed a mute nod.

"Good," Giles replied, this time giving Ethan's wrist an encouraging squeeze. "Keep pressure there. Tight as you can manage."

Ethan nodded again in comprehension as Giles stood and stepped away, but his mind was in a veritable tailspin. With his hand against the compress, he could now feel that the back of Frankie's t-shirt was soaked and sticky. He hadn't noticed at first – not until the blood had seeped all the way through to the outer layer of her sweater.

_The M'fashnik_, he thought. The demon's limbs were armored with large, sharp spines. One of them must have sliced into her when the creature had squeezed her body – slid up under the girl's ribs like a blade.

But that wasn't right . . .

_She's a Slayer,_ Ethan's mind insisted stubbornly, as though that fact alone would be enough to affect what was happening._ Slayers can handle almost anything. Couldn't they?_

Ethan turned searching, desperate eyes up toward Giles.

_Couldn't they?_

"Rupert?" he murmured. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet and pleading.

Frankie's slight body began to shiver in his grasp. She curled inward on herself against the obvious pain and her jaw quivered as though her teeth were chattering. She had never seemed so small to Ethan before – and for all her Slayer strength, she suddenly felt inexorably fragile.

"_Rupert_?" he repeated urgently, tightening his grip on the girl.

But Giles was no longer in front of him. He was already up and on his mobile. Ethan was vaguely aware of hearing him give their location to the emergency dispatch. Ethan's own mind simply couldn't focus; the world around him was a dizzying haze of chaos. He felt like he was caught in a horrible turmoil – swept up in the disorienting effects of the Rwasundi talisman.

If only he could shut it off as quickly.

_Oh, God._ He had _no idea_ what to do.

". . . Ethan?"

The small, soft voice cut through the frenzied miasma in his mind and Ethan turned his head back down. Frankie was finally looking at him again. There was noticeably more blood on her lips, but they still curved upward into a warm smile.

Ethan stared down at her for a moment, and the world grew quiet around him, the chaos dissipating. He blinked.

Frankie's smile brightened, a happy twinkle reaching all the way to her eyes, even through the noticeable pain.

"I love you," she said softly.

Ethan's chest seemed to jolt, abruptly and painfully. His body stiffened at her words and he felt a sudden icy panic race through his veins. "No, no," was his automatic reply. He smoothed her hair back again and shook his head vigorously. He managed a feeble smile. "No, sweet girl, you shouldn't say that."

Frankie cocked her head at him in youthful challenge. It reminded Ethan sharply of her appearance in his room last night.

"Why not?" she asked impishly. A sharp, rattling sound accompanied each of her quick breaths. Her skin was very pale.

Ethan's jaw clenched.

(_Because it sounded too much like a fucking goodbye, and he wouldn't stand for it._)

"Because you need to save up your energy, love. So you can get better," he answered plainly. "Slayers heal very quickly."

That was true; Ethan knew it was. So why did it feel as if he was lying?

Ethan noticed for the first time that his eyes and cheeks felt damp. He wasn't sure when that had happened, and his first impulse was to look away. Ethan cast his gaze about for a moment, before focusing on a random spot in the grass just to the side of Frankie's shoulder, with his eyes directed stubbornly away from her.

His concentration was broken when he felt Frankie's small fingers creep insistently into his hand. She pressed something solid against his skin. Ethan broke his intent focus on the grass and glanced reflexively down to where their hands were now joined.

Frankie's metal cross was poking out of his palm.

Ethan's eyes widened and his heart lurched. He shook his head again adamantly. "No," he insisted. "No, sweetheart, this is yours. You should hold on to it." He tried to transfer it back into her possession. "For good luck, remember?"

Frankie shrugged minutely, even as her body shivered. "Yeah," she agreed. "Found you, right?"

Ethan made a choked, broken sound that he never would have consciously imagined himself capable of. In an instant he had swept Frankie up and against him, clutching her tighter until his fingertips pressed shallow, possessive indentations into her skin. The compress against her back was wet and heavy in his other hand.

Ethan felt the young Slayer's arms wrap around him in response, though not as strongly as before. Ethan shuddered as he held his face against the dampness of Frankie's cold cheek. His own body began to tremble involuntarily.

"You listen to me, Frankie," he whispered fiercely into her hair. "I love you." He swallowed hard to force the words past the sudden crippling thickness in his throat. "You turn a man's whole ruddy life upside down, but you are _my _Slayer, and I _love_ you. Do you hear me?"

Frankie managed a girlish giggle beside his ear and Ethan couldn't help but feel a brief, familiar stab of indignation that, at the same time, broke his shuddering heart. He gripped the young Slayer tighter and, on reflex, pressed his lips, firmly and possessively, against her skin.

He held her against him until he felt her grip slacken and her arms slide limply away from his back.

Ethan's heart twisted painfully in his chest. A rush of cold spread through him and he curled himself even more securely around Frankie's small, still form with a soft groan, holding her desperately to his chest.

He was only distantly aware of Giles' hand coming to rest firmly on his shoulder as he cradled his broken Slayer in his arms.

And he was only distantly aware that the crushing, shattered cries of sorrow which had begun echoing through the darkness of the otherwise quiet park were actually his own.

_To be concluded . . ._

* * *

**Endnotes:** The music of Sting has been greatly influential to this story. While the primary song in my head has always been "Shape of My Heart" (due to the fanart that originally inspired this story), the song that I feel really speaks to the end of this particular chapter is Sting's 1988 single "Fragile".

Both are awesome and poignant. Definitely give them a listen!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Based on characters and concepts owned by others. Written for fun, not profit.

**Rating:** Teen and up

**Author's Notes:** The end of this particular story was certainly a long time in coming. Regardless of the huge delay, not to mention the somewhat unconventional subject matter (minor canon characters and OCs are never fandom's biggest draw when it comes to readership), it was always something of a labor of love for me. I'm very happy to have finally finished it.

I'm very grateful to Wickedfox for posting the fantastic original fanart that inspired it, and gave me the opportunity to focus on a little-seen redemption arc in this fandom. Many thanks also go to my original beta Sandy_S, who offered a great deal of helpful advice on this project 8 years ago. I hope the ending lives up to the quality she always encouraged while we were working together. And finally, an all too belated thank you goes to Deathisyourart and the staff at the Watchersdiaries LJ community for proposing and initiating the original art/fic challenge.

So while I've always found a great deal of enjoyment in this fic, my biggest regret about it is that it took so very long to complete. I sincerely hope that, at the very least, the intervening years only served to improve the quality of my writing and that the story was enjoyed by those who took the time to read it.

Please enjoy the end of _Geometry of Chance_.

**Chapter Summary: **Rupert Giles had once told Buffy that, when he had been young and foolish, he'd made the mistake of falling in with, what he called, "the worst crowd that would have him." But that assessment was only really true in retrospect.

At the time, he had simply called them his friends.

* * *

_**Geometry of Chance**_

_by Rummi_

* * *

**VII. – Epilogue**

Rupert Giles had once told Buffy that, when he had been young and foolish, he'd made the mistake of falling in with, what he called, "the worst crowd that would have him." But that assessment was only really true in retrospect.

At the time, he had simply called them his friends.

They'd been young and foolish, yes. Not to mention completely ignorant of the sort of damage they were capable of causing. But they'd been friends nonetheless.

Some of them – Ethan, in particular – Giles actually felt that he had come to know even better than he knew himself.

And while Ethan had followed a regrettably different path once their relationship had soured – found affinity in the darker elements of the universe, thrived on chaos, prided himself on his volatility – there still remained a certain familiar quality in the man who had once been Rupert Giles' friend.

Which was why Giles knew exactly where to find him now.

For a self-proclaimed agent of chaos, there were times when Ethan Rayne could be rather reassuringly predictable.

It had been much the same after Randall.

Giles strode across the grass to where Ethan stood alone, with his hands thrust casually into the pockets of his jacket. As Giles approached from behind, Ethan did not immediately acknowledge his presence. For a moment, Giles even thought that, for once, Ethan – who always seemed to be so aware of the world around him (all the better to twist circumstances to his advantage, after all) – had actually failed to notice him.

But Ethan had always been good at multitasking.

"I'd've thought you'd be gone by now," Ethan said without turning around.

Giles smiled grimly. Perhaps Ethan Rayne wasn't the only one who was still predictable after all these years.

Giles continued his walk across the lawn and eventually came to stand directly beside Ethan's shoulder. Still, neither man really glanced at the other but, instead, looked down at the smoothed marble marker at their feet.

The memorial headstone had been made and set in only a few short days. In most places, that sort of thing usually took weeks, or longer. But Giles knew from experience that if the masons here didn't work quickly there could be a terrible backup. It was an unfortunate reality of living on a Hellmouth.

Giles put his hands into his own pockets, closely mirroring Ethan's posture. It was mid-June, but the air coming off Lake Erie was making the weather feel a bit cooler of late.

"Tonight, actually," Giles finally responded. "I'll be leaving on a red-eye. Buffy is currently in Italy, and I'll be joining her there. I just had a few loose ends to tie up first."

Ethan snorted mirthlessly. "And one of those 'loose ends' wouldn't happen to be yours truly, would it?" he asked, though it didn't really seem to be a question.

"In a manner of speaking," Giles replied. "I don't know how out of touch you've been over the past few days, so I wanted to tell you in person in case you hadn't heard." He finally turned his face toward Ethan's profile. "Bartholomew Carter is dead."

Ethan's lips twisted in response. "Really?" he asked, though judging by his tone he didn't seem all that surprised. He shrugged. "I suppose a bloke like that must have had a few enemies," he added offhandedly.

"Oh, I'm sure," Giles nodded in agreement. "It's my understanding that a few of them recently came into a bit of anonymous funding as well."

"Imagine that," Ethan mused dryly.

"Indeed," Giles agreed. "It also seems that Carter had a recent falling-out with the upper echelon at his rather exclusive law firm in Los Angeles. Apparently, they saw fit to freeze all his assets."

That _did_ seem to surprise Ethan and, for the first time, he turned to actually look at Giles. His expression was curious, and his skin was still noticeably mottled in places with the remnants of angry purple bruises. "That so?" he asked, this time with genuine interest.

Giles nodded. "So it seems," he replied. "I'm not entirely certain of the details, but from what I gathered, when his hired muscle learned he could no longer pay them for their protective services . . . Well." Giles shrugged, allowing the blanks to be filled in silently.

Ethan blinked with curiosity. "Huh," he muttered. "No loyalty among mercenary demon bodyguards, apparently."

"I'm led to believe that it was terribly painful." Giles turned back to the headstone. "And messy."

Ethan also turned back. "Good."

They stood together for a few more minutes, shoulder to shoulder, and the silence stretched around them. Given the hostility between them in recent years, their current situation should have felt awkward and uncomfortable, but strangely enough, it wasn't. If Giles hadn't known better, he might have thought that standing quietly with Ethan even felt oddly familiar and companionable.

Still, there was at least one unusual thing about it. Ethan Rayne normally embodied the chaos he so openly revered. Looking at him now, Giles couldn't recall the last time Ethan had been so purposely subdued.

Then again, perhaps he could.

"You remember the last time we stood by a grave together?" Giles asked.

Ethan shifted slightly before he replied. "Randall."

Giles nodded, though he knew Ethan wasn't looking at him to notice. "That was the end of a lot of things for us," he mused, his voice somewhat wistful.

Ethan sniffed a small mirthless laugh through his nose. "Well, you know what they say about all good things coming to an end, mate," he pointed out.

Giles bobbed his head in acquiescence, then tilted it to look at Ethan again. "Perhaps this time can be a beginning, of sorts."

Ethan turned to him abruptly, shooting Giles a glare that looked both reproachful and suspicious. "You're not going to get all sentimental on me now, are you, Rupert?" he muttered accusingly. "I hated it when she did it; I won't bloody tolerate it from _you_."

A small dour smirk tugged at a corner of Giles' mouth. He raised his eyebrows and turned deliberately away from Ethan to regard the headstone at their feet. He allowed the smile to linger on his lips as he looked purposely at it.

Ethan turned back as well with a huff of indignation. "I didn't want her to be just another bloody anonymous Hellmouth casualty," he spat, seemingly in his own defense. "Is that so wrong?"

"No," Giles agreed calmly, even as the normally cavalier Ethan Rayne fumed beside him in obvious discomfort. It was an interesting role-reversal. "No, I think what you did was actually quite admirable."

He glanced down at the inscription on the small marble headstone.

_Frances Rayne_  
_1990-2003_

Ethan shifted uneasily beside Giles' shoulder. "They asked her name," he finally said. "And I realized . . . I didn't know." He tried to conceal the small catch in his voice as he said it. Giles noticed, though he didn't acknowledge it.

"I never really asked for her full name," Ethan continued, the confessions coming a bit more freely as he spoke. "Too wrapped up in my own bloody plans. Didn't really know what year she was born either, just that she wasn't thirteen yet. But I—" He shook his head and his shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of his regret. "I doubt _this_ would be what she'd want," he muttered ruefully. "She seemed to love her mum, but I never . . . asked . . ." Ethan trailed off again. He was quiet for a moment.

"Maybe I shouldn't have done it," he finally added wearily with a heavy sigh, then repeated, "I just didn't want her to be a bloody unknown."

Giles reached out to Ethan's shoulder and placed his hand there with a firm grip. He felt the other man tense beneath his fingers, and not likely from the injuries Ethan was still nursing. Giles offered a squeeze of support anyway. After a moment, he felt Ethan relax – if only slightly.

Ethan raised his eyes from the headstone and looked out across the quiet landscape of the Erie Street Cemetery. He let out what seemed like a deliberate exhale of resignation, then asked, softly, "How do you bear it, Rupert? Losing a Slayer?"

Giles wasn't sure he had a good answer for that, even though he'd had more experience than most. Offering another bit of reassuring pressure to Ethan's shoulder, he let his hand drop as he answered, "One day at a time."

Ethan shook his head as if to say that was not the answer he had been hoping for. In a world of profound and powerful magic, the fact that there was no supernatural balm for a wounded soul or a missing piece of one's heart was difficult to accept. That was also something Giles knew better than most – and likely something Ethan had purposely distanced himself from ever having to learn.

Giles felt a rush of pity for the man who had once been his friend.

"She actually said she loved me," Ethan said. "Can you imagine that?" he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, as though he expected Giles to find the very notion absurd.

Giles, however, did not take the bait. He placed his hands back into his own pockets and looked out across the cemetery as well. "If she cared for you, then you gave her a reason to. And you did risk your life for her. Which means you served her as best you could," he replied. "The best Watchers always do."

Giles could feel Ethan's glare shift onto him. The other man snorted derisively. "Watcher," Ethan repeated in a sardonic tone. "No need to be insulting, Rupert."

Giles shrugged slightly. "You're a decent spell-caster, Ethan," he pointed out. "You always were. It was being a decent human being where you needed a little work." He turned again and met Ethan's eyes. "I think she may have begun to help you with that. You may have more to offer than you think."

Turning back away from Giles again, Ethan actually laughed. It was subtle, but still – probably his first genuine laugh in several days.

"Oh, you _must_ have come out on the other side of an _epic_ bloody apocalypse this time, mate," Ethan chuckled amusedly. "Especially if you're actually suggesting what it sounds like you're suggesting."

Giles cocked his head to the side. "That Ethan Rayne might actually be capable of something worthwhile?" he asked.

Ethan turned back to Giles challengingly. "I never played well with the other kids, Rupert," he replied. "You know that."

"Nevertheless," Giles said with another small shrug. "This Hellmouth is going to need Slayers, so I'll be sending a few. Faith, probably, and some of the more experienced girls to start." Giles raised a brow and met Ethan's eyes with a challenge of his own. "If you plan on remaining in Cleveland for a while, it's possible you could be a help."

Ethan held Giles' gaze for a few long seconds, as if waiting for some sort of punchline, then shook his head with a wry quirk to his mouth. "I'm not cut out for that sort of life, Rupert," he said. "You should know that better than anyone. Watchers and Councils, rules and standards, all that order and rigidity. I'd go sodding mad."

"Oh, well you should see it now," Giles mused dryly, turning casually back away from Ethan. "Hundreds of Slayers all over the place. Absolute bloody _chaos_ keeping track of them all. It's horrible. You'd love it."

Ethan let out another genuine chuckle at that. He also turned so he and Giles were, again, standing shoulder to shoulder. His eyes drifted downward and fell upon the headstone once more. His laugher tapered off gradually, until only a small, sad smile remained on his face.

"She deserved better, you know," he said after a beat.

Giles nodded in agreement. "They always do," he concurred. "All the Slayers who fall in the line of their duty."

Ethan winced slightly. "I meant that she deserved better than getting involved with me," he clarified. "You were right, Giles: it was selfish." He turned his head completely away – away from the headstone, and away from any view Giles might have had of his face. "And now she's gone because of me," he added bitterly. "You were right about that too."

For as gratifying as the notion of Ethan Rayne admitting that Giles was right about something might have once been, in that moment, it felt like the furthest thing from a victory.

Giles frowned, then took a deep breath. "Ethan, it's an unfortunate fact that all Slayers die, just like everybody else," he said. "Most of them, unfortunately, all too soon. And others . . . more than once."

"Well then, it should have been doing something bloody _important_!" Ethan bit back harshly, a noticeable catch in his voice. He snapped his head back toward Giles, but didn't look directly at him. Instead he focused on the grass; his shoulders were trembling slightly. "Doing her _actual_ duty," he added more softly. "Saving the world."

Giles glanced at Ethan sadly. "I imagine she did," he said, in a way that left little room for argument. "Frances Rayne saved the part of the world that mattered most to _her_."

Ethan closed his eyes tightly, and kept them shut for several moments. A slight but noticeable tremor seized his body and his shoulders trembled. Giles reached out to offer another hand of support, but Ethan abruptly straightened and cleared his throat audibly. He opened his eyes and, for the first time, removed his own hands from his pockets.

Between the thumb and index finger of his left hand was a small, metallic object attached to a black length of ribbon. Ethan shifted his focus down to look at it and gave the object a purposeful little rub.

Giles glanced at the small silvery cross as well, then back up at Ethan's profile.

"That was hers?" Giles asked, though he knew the answer.

Ethan nodded. "Was going to leave it here for her," he said, clearing his throat again to banish some of the remaining thickness. "But someone might just take it. And she seemed to want me to have it, so . . ." He trailed off.

"So you'll keep it," Giles offered.

Ethan shrugged. "She said it was good luck," he replied, though his expression was a bit dubious.

Giles bobbed his head slightly back and forth. "We've both had a lifetime of experience with magic, Ethan," he said. "You and I both know that even the most innocuous items can sometimes make the most potent talismans – so long as there's an element of faith behind them." He mimicked Ethan's shrug as he added, "And the girl did say it brought her into your life in the first place."

Ethan grinned softly and curled his fingers fully around the metal cross, then slipped it back into his pocket.

They stood in silence again for a long time after that. Eventually, Giles turned his head to glance back at Ethan. "So do you think you might stay here for a while?" he asked.

Ethan continued to look straight ahead of him – out across the expanse of the quiet cemetery. "Oh, you know me, old friend," he said with a grin, "I always like to keep you guessing."

His tone was deliberately evasive, as Giles had expected it would be, and one corner of his lips had curled into his habitual roguish smile, but Giles detected a notable difference this time beneath all the familiar window dressing – his first real glimpse in a very long time of the man who had been his friend all those years ago.

Whatever change Ethan was undergoing was still in its infancy, of course, and the road leading from this point was neither a short nor an easy one. Giles had learned this lesson through difficult personal experience. But Giles also knew how possible it was to emerge on the other side of a second chance for the better. He'd gone through it himself, and seen as much in so many others – especially in the years since he'd met Buffy Summers. It wasn't easy, but it was certainly possible.

Besides, Giles had meant what he'd said: Perhaps this time _could_ be a new beginning – just the sort of second chance a man like Ethan Rayne needed. He hoped Ethan saw it as a chance worth taking.

And while Giles wasn't entirely certain what Ethan would do from here – as the man had said, he did prefer his surprises – somehow he thought that an extended stay in Cleveland could be in the cards after all.

Giles smiled faintly.

After all these years, Ethan Rayne just might end up surprising himself.

**The end.**


End file.
